The Wind Lord
by Swallow-Tailed Kite
Summary: His world has gone to ashes long ago, but he is the Master of the Hallows with an eternity more to go. He has flown over Middle-earth since it came to be, with a form some called Gwahir. Now the Third Age is drawing to a close and the Fourth dangles between an Age of Men and that of Orcs. Personally, Harry preferred Men over Orcs, so of course he had to do something.
1. Prologue: How It Began

**Hi!**

 **If you're a new reader, hello and welcome to the fic!**

 **If you've read the** ** _other_** **version of WLP, you haven't clicked wrong and this** ** _is_** **the new version, only that this and the next chapter are still the same as the old one as the differences really begin in Chapter 2. It's entirely up to you if you want to skip to C2 or reread these chapters again.**

 **Either way, same old disclaimers: owns nothing except the concept and most bits of the plot line. (** ** _Mine_** **.) Enjoy the read and please do leave a review!**

 **Thanks and have a good day.**

* * *

Harry regretted uniting the Hallows. He regretted winning the Elder Wand from Draco. He regretted opening the snitch to gain the Resurrection Stone. He also regretted the time when he had been idiot enough to _want_ the Hallows. (But he never regretted gaining the cloak. The cloak had been Potters', long before they were called that. It had been his father's, his grandfather's, his great-grandfather's and more, passed down from father to son before the Potters were _Potters_. The cloak was his.)

Their combined effects were subtle but undeniable—no sign of age touched his body, even as Ginny's fiery hair became silver strands, as Hermione's face became etched with wrinkles, as Ron's joins became stiff and inflamed. Being Master of the Hallows had all but stopped his physical aging and carved out a new, eternal position in the universe. (And wasn't that funny? His role was trivial, mattering little in the grand scheme of things, created only when the Hallows were brought together by his desperate, _idiot_ seventeen year old self, and yet once created it could not be destroyed. He gave up everything for nothing and eternity.)

When his children were gone and Teddy breathed his last, Harry gave up his wretched semblance of a normal wizarding life and turned to his Animagus form. He fell, caught the wind, and soared.

A golden eagle could be seen circling above what once was Godric's Hollow, now turned into glass skyscrapers. In Scotland, tourists pointed out the bird flying between crumbling towers and stone walls.

As a bird he was free, detached from his memories, limited only by the sky and his whims.

It was in the air that he remembered Sirius, who was tossed into Azkaban so soon after his world had shattered, hurting and angry from Pettigrew's betrayal but stayed sane even as dementors ate away any happiness and brought up every memory that caused pain and anguish, and was abruptly taken aback by his godfather's resilience.

Harry had it better. He could survive this and leave with his mind and sanity intact. He had all of time and nothing to stop him. (Nothing _could_ stop him.)

Then the world crumbled around him.

The short version: he flew across barren land and sea and molten lava until he met life in this new world.

The long version: he could not have flown forever, and there was no place to land save molten rocks and poisonous wastelands. Death does not accept him, and Kings Cross was only for the dead, not for him, whatever he was. So as his body burned and choked, he drifted in the void between worlds, where horrors live and there is no light.

* * *

Inhale _darkness_ exhale _darkness_ blink _darkness_ pain _darkness_ burning _darkness_ please stop _darkness_ no _darkness_ no _darkness_ stop _darkness_ _why_ darkness darkness darkness _gone_.

* * *

Somewhere _beyond_ , comprehensible only to the part of his mind that managed eternity, a greater power remoulded the world and rewrote its destiny. In themes beyond mortal minds, a new order was created and the Valar became its heralds and guardians.

* * *

Harry cannot remember this part of his life. He had been told that he was Nienna and Estë's first patient, and that shortly after Námo created the Halls of Mandos, so souls had a place to reside after their bodies could sustain them no longer.

(He's more grateful towards the Ainur than they know, but that was something he'll never speak of.)

Harry _can_ remember, though, the moment when Aulë unveiled his new form, so similar to his Animagus form and yet countless times bigger, and when Manwë gave him the title of Wind Lord. It was the first moments of happiness— _of anything_ , really—that he had felt for such a very long time.

Thus Gwaihir was born, and the shadows of his wings were oft seen upon the new green earth.

As to the age old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg, Harry solved it when he found a handful of people-sized chicks in his living area. It was not an easy task, bringing up giant sentient birds (for one thing, the appetites of _huge, wingspan-larger-than-trees-are-tall_ eagles could not possibly be overestimated), but one day the feathered menaces grew up and became adults, seeking their own mates and having their own young. Thorondor, the largest in Harry's brood of menaces, eventually took over as king of the eyrie to serve the Breath of Arda.

Life continued.

Elves came onto the scene, bickering and separating on their long westward march. Harry watched them from afar, too preoccupied with working out his magic to be involved with the clans. The remaking of the world had changed the magic from something calm and tame into a thrumming, rampaging beast. Without the force behind them, spells were nothing more than flashy lights.

Back then, he had been loath to use the Deathstick, holly-and-phoenix-feather having been buried and burned beneath shifting continents.

So Harry did what he does best: adapt.

Between battles that broke mountains and sank whole lands, he recreated runes. Between the hubris that reshaped the earth and the final greatest alliance of the races, he completed the warding of the eyries.

With Sauron gone for little over a thousand years, Harry had grown careless. He'd flown over an orc camp without realising it, too lost in thoughts. Then the arrows came, and he crash-landed into the desert. The orcs were only too happy to have brought down a Great Eagle and came to him with the intentions of finishing the job.

They didn't.

Not directly, at least.

It was Extremely Not Fun lying out in the Harad desert, resembling a feathered pincushion, filled with enough poison to kill an Oliphaunt's lesser cousin but not enough to kill an Eagle, and unwilling to shift back to human-shapes because the arrows were going to _hurt_. So when a wizened old man in grey came across him and managed to remove both poison and arrows, Harry was very happy indeed. Happy enough to give Olórin-turned-Gandalf three open favours.

Let it not be said that wizards did not know when to seek help.

Years passed. Amon Lanc became Dol Guldur, Greenwood became Mirkwood.

After a particularly memorable party under the Blue Mountains, Harry was passing above Minas Tirith when he decided on a whim that he would allow the first person who found him to 'tame' him. It wasn't his best decision, but it was also extremely far from his worst. The lucky finder turned out to be a scruffy young man called Thorongil, who served Steward Ecthelion II as army captain.

Thorongil was a nice guy, great at elven medicine and inspiring trust in his men. Harry witnessed many victories by the man and provided aid whenever it was desperately needed. (Only a little aid, mind you. Nothing too big or too outrageous. Certainly he had nothing to do with the stone statues of orcs just outside the camp.) He liked to think that he had played the part of a loyal bird very well, even taking an arrow to the wing (again) (there was a lot of pain and bleeding fingers).

To everyone's surprise, Thorongil decided to leave after his astounding victory at Umbar. His human leaving, Harry concluded that his time was also up and left.

He needed a little change in scenery. He'd been to the far east once and it had seemed interesting, so that was where he headed and where he stayed for the next few decades. Then an insistent westerly wind blew him all the way back to Middle Earth and led him right onto the trails of the Nazgûl.

Holiday's over. Back to work it was.

* * *

 **Aaaand I'm still not satisfied by this chapter. Gah. If this one's not quite to your tastes, try the next one. It's better, I promise.**

 **See you in the chapter after next!**


	2. Chapter 1: Foiled Plans

Harry peered down at the dark figure in the forest below, following the rider as it crossed the forest at an unnatural pace, deftly avoiding the dense trees in the dim light. A moment later, it screeched. The impact was lessened by distance, but even so, Harry could feel it reverberating in his head, scratchy and shrill. He winced, beating his wings down once to gain more height and strangled the newly-risen urge to screech back at the Ringwraith with magic-augmented volume. See how they'd like _that_.

A distant echo reached him, an answering shriek from the Nazgûl looping from somewhere northwards of Weathertop. The wraith Harry was tracking sped up abruptly, racing across the plains with newfound vigour. It was as if a beacon had been lit, a shining candle blooming in the darkness they had been blindly groping around before.

That was bad news. The wraiths were attuned to only two things; their master and the One.

Who would be using the One Ring _now_? Why would _anyone_ be using it now?

Far into the horizon, lights from the village of Bree shone bright in the darkening distance. Harry tilted his head for a better look. The streets were near empty, and only faint flickers of light came from the scattered houses. The inn, on the other hand, seemed to be busy. Light spilled from its windows, silhouetting the guests who stood before it. Looked like Butterbur had some new arrivals this day. Good for him.

The Ring was likely to be in the hands of a traveler, else the Nazgûl would surely have headed straight to Bree without the fussing and vague directions. If the traveler was wise, he'd be seeking shelter from the night. Traveling in the dark in this age and with that particular artefact would be most foolish.

The inn was a good place to start. Harry overtook the Nazgûl below him with ease, a steady tailwind propelling him forward descending down to Bree. His great form melted away until a slightly feathery, slightly winged, wizard dropped down beside the stables within the village. Conveniently, the Prancing Pony was close by.

A jingle of metal stopped him in his tracks. Harry looked down, suddenly reminded of his decidedly foreign attire. A tap of the Elder Wand had him back in his own robes and traveling cloak, adornments carefully tucked away in a pocket, appearing more like a local who had just went on a short journey.

The inn was loud tonight. Even outside the courtyard, Harry could hear the voices within. An unruly drunk, perhaps? No. That would involve shouting, not this soft, thoughtful murmur. Wrapping his worn, dusty cloak firmly around himself, Harry slipped quietly into the Prancing Pony.

The light from the blazing fireplace assaulted his eyes and Harry blinked, moving off to a side where it was more shadowed. People—mostly men, though there were a fair number of hobbits and dwarves—were sitting down at their tables, heads bent together and talking among themselves.

A stool was overturned at an empty table to the left, with half-empty mugs still on the table. Butterbur stood a distance a way, looking uncomfortable and uneasy, his eyes flitting nervously over the buzzing customers.

Harry slouched over to an empty table by the wall, and slumped forward, looking disinterested and thoroughly exhausted but really listening _very_ interestedly to the mutters around him.

"He was just there-"

"-disappeared-"

"–magician, most like–"

"-vanish into thin air–"

Snatches of conversation stood out to him, dredging up some old knowledge with them. Disappearance? Definitely invisibility. What's a side-effect of the Ring? The wearer became present in the Unseen realm. Never worked on Sauron, but then as a Maia he already existed in both realms. It had certainly worked on Isildur. (They had all been such _fools_.)

From the bits and pieces Harry managed to reconstruct the happenings within the inn. Young Shire hobbit, possibly quite drunk, had started to dance on the table. One trip and the hobbit fell. Rather than landing on the floor as everyone was wont to do, he had vanished.

Harry lifted his head and slammed it (gently) onto the table. You'd think people would learn never to mix drink and crucial matters, but they very often _don't_.

Also, weren't hobbits small, peaceful folks with an absolute disdain of adventures, lateness and anything that might interrupt their dinner? How had someone with a genetic hatred of adventures end up in possession of the One Ring?

He must consult Elrond and Gandalf later.

The hobbit had came with friends (companions of a traveling magician), maybe one or two or three, perhaps four, all of whom had left the common-room during the commotion.

Butterbur was making his way over to his table now. Harry stood up. There was little more to gain by eavesdropping—already the conversations were shifting to other topics—and Butterbur wouldn't be willing to talk about it, especially not to strangers. He was related to the hobbit in some way, though Harry couldn't tell how without using more invasive means. Still slumped over, he swept out of the inn.

Upon his exit, a drab brown moth fluttered into his face, flitting about his head in agitation. Harry raised a finger for the moth to land, and it quickly whispered its message. There was a brief moment as Harry processed what he heard.

Another brief moment passed.

Harry froze, disbelief stilling his limbs.

Gandalf trapped on the roof of Orthanc.

Beware Saruman _?_

 _What?_

Harry moved forward, almost stumbling on the last step, and leaned against the entry arch of the Prancing Pony. Unless he was misreading the situation very, _very_ , badly, Saruman was no longer with them. Why else would Gandalf send for help?

Why did Saruman turn? _When?_ _Why?_

His once student.

( _How could you_ –)

Saruman led the White Council. He was present at every meeting, knew all the plans they had to counter the rising Shadow in the east. Among them all he was perhaps the most knowledgeable about the Rings and Sauron, having delved deep into the topic.

And now he was against them.

The moth shifted on his hand, wings opening and closing in turn. Harry looked at it, suddenly aware that he had a task to do, and shoved all other thoughts away. Gandalf first. He could mull over everything afterwards.

Harry sprinted towards the gate, cupping the moth with his hands to prevent it from being blown over. With a low swoop and a few quick wingbeats, he was soaring into the clear skies above Bree.

( _Trust_ ed _you–_ )

His night vision was truly terrible. Where in the day he could see a single twisted nail in a wall, at night buildings became dark blobs in a darker darkness. Blinking, Harry soared up towards a cloud-hidden moon.

Once he had enough altitude, he twisted and dropped, going from small to human to huge in the span of seconds. Transformation done, Harry spread his wings to break his descent, and on the ground below trees bent and swayed from the wind created by his downward stroke.

Then between one breath and the next, the scenery morphed and swirled, and Harry was banking left, wingtip just short of skimming the dome of wards protecting Isengard. The moth detached itself from his tail and fluttered down in shaky spurts towards the tower.

Dark clouds above blocked out the starlight and there was a lingering smell of smoke and burning coal in the air. Queer growling reached his ears, a deep breathy groan that overwhelmed the hammering of metal and steel. Flickering lights danced in the depths of Isengard. The vast greenery that had covered the valley was stripped bare, leaving stumps of tree trunks and barren soil. The Isen river which lent its name to the valley was dammed up, its waters discoloured and foul. He flew higher, away from the black stone walls.

The swathe of burnt land below him extended to the edge of Fangorn Forest and beyond. Harry could almost bring himself to pity Saruman, who seemed to have forgotten the terrifying wrath of the Ents or thought them insignificant in his arrogance.

Treebeard would have Isengard reduced to mere rocks for it.

On the very top of the Orthanc lay Gandalf, his hair dishevelled and a dark streak on his face.

Harry hissed and dropped lower until he was skimming the wards. Saruman had not guarded against Great Eagles. His mistake.

He dipped down, gathering his magic tightly into himself and went through the wards. They brushed against him, cold and unwelcoming but also silent and still.

Saruman had come onto the rooftop, his white robes shimmering strangely in the moonlight. Harry completed another circle, watching with constrained fury as Saruman flung Gandalf across the floor like a doll. He made sure to pass across the moon, and smiled inwardly at the way Gandalf's eyes followed him.

It's time to leave this place.

He dived, wingtip almost brushing the side of the black tower, and called once. On cue, Gandalf threw himself down, and Harry caught him easily on his back with a soft _flump_.

From his peripheral, Harry saw Saruman come to the edge, a fierce look on his face. Harry flipped his tail feathers at him and soared up, breaking away from the wards before Saruman could even think of trapping them. A wind picked up behind him, and Harry latched onto it, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Isengard. He couldn't delay, not when he had a passenger who was vulnerable to hard beaks and sharp talons of crebain.

"To Rohan, my old friend," Gandalf said finally. "I have need of a horse."

Rohan? That was close enough. Harry adjusted his flight and headed south.

" _You're not heading to Bree?_ "

He felt Gandalf fidget on his back. "I must stop by Rohan first before taking care of the business in Bree."

Well. One chance to guess what the _business_ was, and if it's not circular and shiny then Harry would be extremely disappointed. Gandalf had been wandering around far too much to be ignorant of its resurface.

" _Does your 'business' take the form of a ring?_ " Harry asked dryly. " _I have not seen the Nazgûl so excited since Dol Guldur. Why are they heading to Bree?_ "

"They are tracking the Ring-bearer, who should be close to Imladris by now, if all things went as planned."

Harry let out a low, thoughtful whistle.

" _Who is the Ring-bearer?"_

"A hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins."

" _Pray tell, Gandalf. How did a_ hobbit _end up with a Ring of Power?_ "

* * *

Having deposited Gandalf not too far away from the gate of Edoras, Harry was back in the air. He was no longer needed there—Gandalf had his own transport and Harry was confident he would be where he was needed, when he was needed, without any further aid from him.

He thought back to Bree and the wraiths, and focused.

The Prancing Pony was quiet, all candle lights extinguished at this hour as its inhabitants slept. Somewhere, a horse whinnied, breaking the peaceful silence. Slowly, Harry descended to an open spot and shrunk down to human-size, reaching for his wand. A modified _revelio_ charm told him that there were no wraiths in the vicinity.

He would wait for them to make their move, Harry decided. He had little hope of finding the Nazgûl, particularly at night, but tonight was a good night to attack and they would expose themselves when they did.

A gate creaked softly from the south. Harry whirled around. It wasn't a suspicious black-hooded figure leaking malevolence.

He fired off another charm, and received the same results. No Nazgûl.

Stretching a little, Harry moved to the inn's courtyard fence and raised his wand. Thin lines etched themselves onto the wood and stone, and he traced it around the boundaries of the Pony. It was a simple proximity ward with just one function—alert if someone entered.

There was a sturdy-looking tree beside the inn, with some branches levelled alongside the second floor windows. Harry rolled his shoulders and perched himself on one of them, high enough to spot anyone sneaking about. Now, it was just a matter of killing some time until someone tried something.

A lot, _a lot_ , of time, as it turned out.

He was in the midst of a light nap when the ward activated. Harry was alert at once, swivelling his head to look at the newcomers. Four figures crossed under the arch, their unconcealed swords gleaming pale grey in the moonlight. Gauntlets covered their hands, and the tread of their steps were heavy and soft.

They could be travellers, exhausted and seeking no more than a soft bed after a long day of journey. Such a sight wasn't uncommon, but those sort tended to be worn out, the smell of the road permeating their being—suspicious black-hooded figures they certainly weren't.

The shapes crept across the courtyard and disappeared into the inn. Harry glided down just as the door swung behind the last, shifting back into human form to hold the door ajar. One tap had himself disillusioned and he entered the Pony, wand held loosely between his fingers.

Among many other things, the figures lacked the distinct aura of terror that the Nazgûl carried. Henchmen, then. This certainly simplified many things. Harry twirled the Elder wand between his fingers, following the four as they climbed up the stairs to the inn's rooms. No hesitation, no uncertainty—someone must have told them their target's room number. Harry frowned at the thought, stopping on the stairway as the group halted. The leader turned towards them, motioning to the second door.

"He's in this one," he whispered, pulling something from a pocket before bending down to the lock.

Harry raised an eyebrow, carefully avoiding all contact with the four figures as he sidled along the corridor. The room was quiet, as could be expected at this time of the night. Over the head of the lock-picking man, a _revlio_ charm passed through the walls. The results he received caused a surprised blink—the room was empty. Misinformation or purposeful deception? Either way, Harry could appreciate the good fortune.

With a soft click, the door was open. In went the four, swords held ready between armoured hands. They paused at the doorway, and Harry tip-toed to see that there were four beds in the room, each with a shape wrapped under a layer of blanket. Deception. Poor lighting and bolster dummies made for good decoys, it seemed. The leader went to the bed in the corner and the others followed, standing beside a bed with raised swords.

Unbidden, they thrust down as one. Harry slipped into the room and gently shut the door behind him. The act went unnoticed by the others, who were still vigorously stabbing. _Muffliato_ secured the room.

One of the men stopped suddenly, cursing. His sudden vulgarity stopped the others, one of whom moved closer to inspect his victim. A moment later, that man growled, slashing at the mat that formed the head of the dummy and kicked the bedframe.

"Fake," he hissed. "What do we do now?"

"Search the other rooms. Find him!" said the leader angrily, pulling his sword from the mattress and sheathing it.

Oh dear, Harry couldn't allow that.

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?"

 _Stupefy, stupefy, stupefy_. Oh, and _petrificus totalus_.

The first three stilled and toppled, falling forward onto the floor or a bed. Harry cancelled his disillusionment and strode up to the leader who had frozen where he stood. He cast the other's hood back, watching as the man's eyes rolled around frantically.

"Nazgûl," Harry said. "Ringwraiths, black horses, Baggins."

Then he legilimenced the man.

* * *

The Nazgûl were not in the habit of dispensing information. The four knew very little—one had even planned to grab the ring and run, as if the wraiths would fail to find him if he took a lesser known route through the South Downs. Harry had snorted at the thought.

He disillusioned the stunned four and levitated them out through the door. Just before exiting the room, he shot a weak repairing charm at the ruined beds. It wouldn't completely mend the bolsters and bedsheets and mattresses, but it did made them more salvageable.

At the door to the inn, Harry held the stack of invisible bodies in place as he moved ahead. The door opened and the newcomer was instantly stunned. That must have been the last man. A quick check showed that he was indeed the last of the group, having been too busy setting horses loose to join the quartet just now.

Hopefully the customers of the inn had insurance of some form; good riding horses weren't cheap around here, last Harry checked. Absently, he added the last man to the pile and exited the inn, wondering what to do with his collection of unconscious people.

They still had to report to the Nazgûl, or the Ringwraiths would be suspicious.

In the end, he half-buried the five into liquified, muddy ground, and did the standard job of reviving and memory tweaking each of them until the men would report of their failure and nothing else. Let the wraiths have them. Doubtless they would be harsher than he.

Then Harry went back to the tree and resolutely shut his eyes, determined to make the most of what time remained ere a new day begun.


	3. Chapter 2: Rider Of Rivendell

It was a little after daybreak that someone left the Prancing Pony. Bob the ostler had been running back and forth for a while by the time Harry opened an amber eye to watch the commotion. The stables were empty, handiwork of the last henchmen in the night, though not that Butterbur would know it. The man himself had gone to inspect the damage, dismayed and flustered. After all, it was quite bad for business when your customers' possessions mysteriously made off into the night.

The damage wasn't just limited to the Prancing Pony— _all_ horses within the village was gone. Despite himself, Harry was a little impressed. It took some skills to release all the horses and ponies from an entire village without alerting anyone. Fortunately for Butterbur, before he could be buried under a mound of damage claims, a new suspect arose. A known horse-thief had apparently chosen this night to make off with a horse, so the blame for Bree's equineless state automatically fell on him.

It became the talk of the day once the sun had risen a little higher and residents begun to stir. People were whispering about it, people were discussing the matter, and people were waking up to the news that yep, your horse got stolen by that no-good horse-thief who was Bill Ferny's friend.

One other topic, alongside terrifying black horsemen, that were constantly on people's tongues was that Strider the Ranger had joined the mysterious and occasionally vanishing magician-hobbits who had arrived the previous night. How the entire region seemed to know about this before the sun was even fully up in the sky was rather beyond Harry.

The addition of a Ranger was probably a late development—he had certainly not heard of it until the rumours began to spread. Harry perked up, keeping silent and still within the branches he was roosted. It was unfortunate that people would talk about the vanishing, given that the Ring was not something to be advertised. Although, he supposed, the ones who should be the last to know of its presence already do, so the damage had already been done.

That a Ranger was involved was concerning. Rangers were generally good folk, if not a little bit hard on the olfaction and mortal enemy of clean things, keeping evil at bay in former Arnor at the cost of their lives, only to face scorn and distrust amid the people they protect. But as with all things, there were some less-than-desirable people among them. The idea of a Dúnadan taking the One Ring was vaguely unsettling, but there were plenty those who would rather further their own gains than continue doing the hard and thankless job they had.

Still, Harry trusted that the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, whoever it was now, would post his more reliable men to guard the Shire. He had travelled with them before, and knew that they were all of them very fond of the Shire and its gentle folk with their easy ways. The Fell Winter had been a terrible time for all.

Before long, the whole of Bree was buzzing with excitement as the rumours spread. Harry rather suspected that the event would likely be immortalised in Bree oral history, like the time a Took decided that it was a good idea to raise some puppies he found on a walking-holiday, only for the decidedly _not a dog_ she- _wolf_ to track him five miles and clean out his larder.

Harry shook himself, firmly reminding that he actually had some work to do. A passing hobbit's pocket watch told him that it was almost ten, so if Frodo Baggins was leaving in the morning as he should, then the hobbit would be leaving the Pony soon.

A quick stretch later, Harry burst out from the tree, revelling in the wind against his aquiline face. He climbed the morning updraught upwards, higher than any Man or Hobbit eye can see.

There was a huge crowd gathered in the village, as if _everyone_ had known that a group of hobbits plus one Ranger was going on the move this fine day and had invited their immediate family, their extended family, their distantly related family, their "we have the same name so we were probably related at some point in time" family, and their family pet to see them go. The only possibly result of this was that there were masses of people _everywhere_. The dark wood of rooftops supported more than a few gawkers, while those on the ground became nearly indistinguishable as one dark mass, with a few fair-headed hobbits and men scattered among them.

They eyed each person or group who exited the Prancing Pony, first with eagerness, then with dissatisfaction when they realised that these were probably not the ones they were waiting for.

Finally, a hobbit resembling Gandalf's description stepped out of the inn. He was accompanied by three other hobbits, two with brown curls and one blond. A man in a travel-stained cloak of dark green walked behind him—the mysterious Strider.

Harry dropped a little lower, looping around ahead so he could see their faces and—

Oh.

Well. He hadn't quite expected that.

Thorongil looked like he hadn't aged much in the past four decades since Harry last saw him. Frodo was fortunate; he was in as good hands as could be found in Middle-earth.

The group tramped off with the entire village's gaze upon them. The last one, a brunet, led the sickly-looking pony, chewing on an apple and looking straight ahead with an expression that said he couldn't care less about the whispers and stares. Harry liked him.

He glided lower and landed on a tree across someone's field. The tree was old and its branches sturdy, so Harry shifted form, reaching for his wand. He couldn't be seen from his position, but it also made it harder for _him_ to see his target at this distance. Carefully, he aimed, eyes flickering green and amber as he pointed his wand at the green hood Strider wore.

The charm shot from his wand, stripped of its colour, and enveloped the group. Harry released his grip on the branch and went back into the air, flying low as he headed straight for the crowd. Moments before he reached, he screeched, startling a hobbit so much she tumbled from her crate. Many turned to look at him, only to shriek and duck beneath his skimming talons. A hand reached up to grab his wing and Harry pulled back, meeting the flesh with sharp talons. There was a yelp, a curse, and he released the limb before he cut too deeply, flying up to the roof with a few downward strokes. Perched on the thatched roof, Harry looked imperiously down at the lowly land-bound creatures as an eagle wont to do.

Dark mutters spread through the crowd once the shock wore off, and both hobbits and men turned their attention back to their original targets.

Targets who, incidentally, suddenly seemed more uninteresting than growing grass.

Sharp looks glazed over, their owners unable to focus on Thorongil's group when their minds protested against the dullness.

Harry preened himself, noting that the crowd had halted and stopped their staring as they forgot what they had been looking at. Amid confused murmurs, Thorongil led the hobbits out of the gates without any nosy and unwanted escorts, striding firmly towards the Chetwood. Slowly, the streets below Harry cleared as hobbits and men turned to start their day's work. When it was finally as scant of people as that of a normal morning's (which was to say, not really), Harry took flight again.

Their primary enemies being land-bound orcs, bandits, and wargs, Rangers tended to be less wary of the sky, which was why Harry tailed the sextet from high above instead of trying to follow them on foot. It was dreary work. Though Thorongil was not doubt hastening the pace of the group, it was still depressingly slow for a bird, much less a wizard-eagle who had been very fond of racing brooms. Harry found himself making great sweeping arcs in the sky just to ensure that the group was constantly below him and shook his head. This was far too slow. Suppose he transfigured some ponies for the group?

No, Thorongil wouldn't trust him, and then Harry would have to explain things. Harry disliked explaining things (dislike in this case being a shorter way of saying "hate with the fervour of a thousand stars, with the sun thrown in for a good cause"), and so that was out. Thorongil would never believe that they had the fortune to run into a herd of ponies either, and that would just circle back to explanations.

Gandalf said he had wrote for Frodo to head to Rivendell, so Harry could go there and get Elrond to part with Glorfindel for a bit. Feeling much fonder than he should, Harry considered the idea. Glorfindel was good at combat, great against Fell creatures, and Rivendell could deal with the absence of an Elf-lord for a week or two. Besides, he hadn't met Elrond yet since his return (being a little preoccupied with the wraiths), and this gave him the opportunity to catch up with an old friend and do his little bit to vanquish Sauron at the same time.

Harry glanced down again, swivelling his head until he spotted one of the hobbits' fair hair beneath the sparse canopy. He was not quite familiar with these woods and it would be difficult to pick up a Ranger's trail once lost, particularly when said Ranger had a paranoid streak wider than Mirkwood and skills honed through decades of hard use.

Then his sharp gaze spotted a quiver of brown and Harry was diving down, wings tight against his body. The hare saw him but Harry was faster—so _so_ much faster—and then it was pinned beneath his talons. A swift snap of his beak and its neck was broken, dead before it could begin to panic.

Hungrier than he thought he'd be, Harry tore into his first meal of two days, long ago used to eating worse things in fouler conditions to be bothered by the raw meat. That, and the fact that the eagle form suffered from a paucity of taste buds, which mercifully meant that he could barely taste the bloody strip in his mouth. Definitely not his first choice as a wizard, but eagles were extraordinarily unfussy about their food.

Voices caused him to look up, in time to see Thorongil and the hobbits emerge behind a mound. The golden-haired hobbit beamed when he saw Harry, excitedly elbowing the other hobbit by his side and gesturing in his direction. Frodo stared at him in surprise, pausing briefly in his words to the brunet leading the pony. Only Thorongil seemed completely unperturbed. Grey eyes met his without challenge, and the man gave him a curt nod, as if to acknowledge a good hunting. Harry stared back, blood still dripping from his beak, and dipped his head once, completing the ritual. With a faint smile, the Ranger turned his head to address the hobbits, directing them to go around, giving Harry a wide berth.

Harry waited until they had passed before throwing his head back to swallow his last bite. When the group was a way into the distance, he bent low to the ground and changed form, drawing his wand to lay a tracking spell on Frodo. Then he paused and placed another one on Thorongil too, so he could find the man later if the group separated.

A fox slunk hesitantly towards him, trotting from one tree to another but steadily approaching nonetheless.

"Hello," said Harry, a little amused. "Smelled the hare, did you?"

The fox stopped a few metres away and crouched down, ears pressed flat against its skull. Harry made himself unthreatening, slowly taking stepping away from the carcass at his feet, but still the fox remained at a distance, arching its back and lashing its tail in agitation.

Harry drew in and compacted his presence, veiling it through force of will. Aloud and silently at the same time, he said **_I_** _a_ ** _m_** **_no_** _t here for you_.

Ears swivelling, the fox seemed to consider this, then sprang forward. In a blur, it grabbed the dead hare and shot away, slowing a little to glance back, as if awaiting retribution. When none came, it bounded away with a flick of its tail, the hare firmly between its jaws.

Harry stood up and watched it go, smiling wistfully.

Then he disapparated with near silent swish.

* * *

Cold water in his boots was the first thing Harry registered. Cold water soaking through his leggings. He grimaced, wading to the shore of the Bruinen. Next time he'll apparate by the cliffs instead, since the river evidently couldn't be trusted to run in one path. Once on dry land, Harry tapped his heels, activating the runes inscribed around the leather and then reached down to banish the water from his leggings. With that little bit of magic, Elrond should be aware that he was within the city border.

Rolling his shoulders, Harry morphed into the eagle and took off, cutting above the twisting cliff-path and headed towards the centre of the elven city. There were a few elves in the various gardens, and he spotted Lindir with his harp and sheets of paper with carefully written verses. Still, none were the Elven Lord he sought and Harry dipped lower so he could peer through the windows. One pass revealed that Elrond was not in his study, nor was he in the infirmary, so Harry made a guess and turned for the library. Success.

He dived town, tucked his wings in to pass through the narrow window, and then transformed back into a man, skidding on the floor. Elrond gently put his book back into its slot and turned around.

"Gi suilon," said the wizard on the floor to the Lord of Imladris.

Then the wizard continued to slide onwards, stopping just before he entered the second row of shelves.

"Mae govannen, Reviauron," Elrond said, stepping closer to pull Harry to his feet.

Harry knew that tone. Yeah sure, laugh, Elrond. He'd been going fast when he entered, but not nearly fast enough to go quite that far, and Harry's experienced enough in the Art Of Sliding On The Floor Of Rivendell's Library (he was also very experienced in the Art Of Sliding On The Floor Of Elrond's Study, but that's neither here nor there) to know that something was off.

So.

"Did you have the floor polished?" Harry asked incredulously, scuffing his shoes on the (too smooth to seeming exist) white marble.

Elrond smiled. Smug bastard who _definitely did_. "I do not believe you visited just to express your dissatisfaction about the state of my floors."

" _Excuse me_ ," said Harry. "I apologise deeply for the dearth of complaints, my Lord. I find your taste in tapestry offensive and your attire most appalling."

"That tapestry will be there until you acknowledge its magnificence, and I am certain Glorfindel will agree with me that orange is a very nice colour." Elrond waved a hand airily. "How was your travel?"

"Fine," said Harry, abruptly reminded of the task at hand. He looked around; the library was currently empty. "Do you know about the Ring-bearer?"

"Mithrandir has mentioned him before he left, yes."

"Great! So to summarise everything, hobbits are coming to Rivendell with a trustworthy guide and there are Nazgûl roaming around. Which is why I'd like to borrow Glorfindel for a bit."

Elrond's eyebrow climbed steadily higher. "How many hobbits?"

"Four. And between them and the Ranger they have only one pony, and a half-starved one at that. They're not going to reach Rivendell anytime soon."

"And the Nazgûl are hot on their heels," mused Elrond. "Where are they now? I will inform Glorfindel."

"They just left _Bree_ ," said Harry despairingly. " _Bree_. They are planning to _walk_ here with the _Ring_ and I cannot follow them because they walk so _slowly_."

Elrond quirked a smile. "Not everyone can have wings at will, Reviauron. Why did you not create your false-horses?"

"I have not yet introduced myself to the group," he said, a little sheepishly.

Elrond nodded slowly and patted his shoulder. "Let us go seek Glorfindel."

"Is that my name I hear?" came a distant voice, and moments later Glorfindel was standing at the doorway, Erestor by his shoulder. "Ah."

"Glorfindel! Just the right ellon I wished to see!" Harry bounded up to him. "How quickly can you get prepared to go to certain combat?"

Elrond coughed.

Erestor arched both eyebrows.

Glorfindel grinned and threw his arms around him when Harry dodged too slowly. "Welcome back, Reviauron. Pray tell, what's this about?"

Harry, who had to suffer the indignity of shortness when compared to many elves, found himself just peering over Glorfindel's shoulder to see the beautiful scenery beyond the corridor. He endured the contact with good grace and poked Glorfindel in the side until the elf release him. "You and I have things to do, my friend. Get your horse. We're going to fight some Nazgûl."

"Some details first, I think. Elrond, what has happened?"

With a sigh, Elrond began explaining.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when they rode out, the sun's heat tempered by the beginning chills of winter. Beside him Asfaloth trotted, bells jingling. Harry grinned a little at the horse's plumed headstall and turned to Glorfindel.

"We could begin our ride from Bree," he said. "They couldn't have gone too far. Thorongil—the Dúnadan—would take them around Chetwood first."

Glorfindel shook his head, blond hair flying. "Better we approach them from the front. If your Ranger is as skilled as you say he is, then our foes may well overtake them unknowingly or prepare an ambush ahead."

Harry nodded at the logic. Thorongil could prevent anyone from picking up on the hobbits' trails from behind, but he could not prevent the Nazgûl from creating traps before them. That would make it their job.

"Na lim, Ithilum. Na lim," Harry murmured to his horse. They would need all the speed they can get.

Darkness soon fell upon them, but both riders were hardly bothered by the change. It was a peaceful night, and though Harry kept his ears sharp for the slightest sound of the wraiths, the miles passed uneventfully.

* * *

He awoke slowly, aware that he was no longer on horseback. The shade of leaves blocked the glare of a midday sun from his eyes and Harry looked around, momentarily dazed. He had a green cloak on him, and a glance to his right showed that Glorfindel sans cloak was leaning against Asfaloth's side, his eyes glazed in a way that told Harry the elf was napping. A short distance away was Ithilum, grazing.

" _Point_ ," said Harry, and felt the pull of his tracking spells from the direction of his head. A little stiff-necked, he sat up.

At the motion, Glorfindel blinked and alertness returned to his eyes. "You're awake!"

"I do not quite remember falling to sleep," Harry said, shaking his head. He stood up and stretched, working out the aches that came from sleeping on nature without the barrier of a mattress or a cushioning charm.

"You must stop thinking that you are an Elf, Reviauron," said Glorfindel, chiding but gentle. "Your body must sleep and eat as the Edain."

From somewhere he had produced a packet of dried meat, and he all but shoved it on Harry after he had tossed the cloak back.

"I do not believe you had lunch yesterday and dinner and breakfast we have missed on the road. You require sustenance. Eat."

Admittedly hungry and somewhat abashed, Harry ate. Glorfindel muttered something that sounded suspiciously like " _save me from fool wizards_ " and " _far too old to need a nursemaid_ ", which Harry politely pretended not to hear. It was not the first time he'd forgotten about food, but in his defence, he had been more concerned about the hobbits.

He must have fallen asleep on Ithilum after daybreak, he thought ruefully, and buried the leaves that had wrapped the meat.

Their day passed much as the previous save that Glorfindel now kept a closer eye on his eating habits, looking like a kicked pup if Harry so much as suggested they continue riding through meal times. They crossed the Last Bridge shortly before dusk and continued westwards, adjusting their path only a little when Harry rechecked the hobbits' positions. The sky was cloudless and the stars shone in all their glory, bright against the dark canvas of the sky. Unbidden, Harry found himself humming A Elbereth Gilthoniel beneath his breath, a song quickly picked up by Glorfindel until they were singing it beneath the open skies.

As they neared Weathertop, Harry felt a change about them. Unknowingly, dark clouds had gathered above them, and though their song had kept a patch of starry sky clear, it was diminishing at a rate that spoke of more than just wind.

A piercing shriek cut through the silence, and white light blazed into existence upon Weathertop.

"That must be Mithrandir," Glorfindel said. "We must go and help."

"Of course," said Harry grimly, and nudged Ithilum into a full gallop. Clutching Ithilum's black mane with his left hand, he drew his wand with his right. " _Lumos!_ "

Bright light erupted from the wand tip. If the wraiths thought that Gandalf was going to be fighting alone, they were wrong.

As if in response to the new beacon, white lightning leapt up to the sky, and Harry could see Gandalf's silhouette momentarily illuminated. They were now close enough that he could see the Istar's hat being knocked off by a Nazgûl's swing.

"Here," Harry called to Glorfindel, and threw him a quickly conjured flaming brand.

"Thank you." said Glorfindel, catching the wood with ease. "Noro lim, Asfaloth!"

Asfaloth belled a challenge and surged forward up the slope. Ithilum followed without prompting, and Harry rested a reassuring hand against his neck as he pressed himself low to lessen the wind's resistance. Ahead, Glorfindel had cast aside all his veils and a dangerous light seemed to shine through him, cold and sharp with fury.

The first wraith faltered and fled when the Elf-lord approached, and though the second sat firm, its black steed cringed and back away, and Glorfindel thrust the flames into its front. Harry wheeled around the screeching wraith and lit the cloak of Nazgûl behind Gandalf on fire. Its black steed reared and the Nazgûl turned to swing its ghostly sword at him.

"Hello Khamûl," said Harry, recognising the ghastly face beneath the hood as Ithilum dodged away from arm's reach and turned back for a second round.

Khamûl raised his sword and spoke with a voice like rattling gravel. "We will have the Halfling. To Mordor we will take him!"

"Good luck," Harry replied and thrust his wand under the wraith's hood. Fire and light erupted from its tip, and Khamûl made a pained screech, whirling around to flee.

Harry watched him ride away, and turned, shielding his eyes against another burst of light as Gandalf banished the last wraith. "Gandalf! You are all right?"

"As right as I can be, though I am beginning to feel weary." The Istar picked up his hat and turned to face him. "Reviauron, I hope you are also well?"

"Yes." Harry stroked Ithilum's neck and dismounted. "Have you seen the hobbits?"

Gandalf shook his head. "Alas that I have always been a step behind Frodo."

Harry shook his head, disappointed, and looked up as bells jingled from behind. Glorfindel returned, lightly leaping off Asfaloth's back.

"The Nazgûl will not return tonight," he announced, and nodded at Gandalf. "Mae govannen, Mithrandir. We are seeking a group of four hobbits. Reviauron says a Dúnadan is taking them to Imladris."

"It is I who asked the Dúnadan to accompany them. The hobbits will find no harm in him. But I have not seen them, though I left Bree no more than two days after them."

"You must have flown, if you could reach here so swiftly from Bree," Glorfindel remarked, glancing slyly at Harry who all present knew was the only one capable of the act.

Gandalf chuckled. "Oh no, Lord Glorfindel, you must have confused me with somebody else. I have not the ability to fly but rather the help of Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas of Middle-earth."

Then he whistled, an echoing, bird-like note that carried far in the wind. Above, the clouds broke up, and moonlight bathed the broken stones of Amon Sûl. Some were a little charred, and Harry saw the remnants of what had been Gandalf's campfire scattered about. Beside him, Glorfindel made a surprised sound, and Harry turned to see the new horse surging up the hill. Its coat was silver-grey as the shade of leaves, and its mane was pale like the moon.

Shadowfax paused when he neared and exhaled loudly, turning a cautious eye at Harry before deciding that he wasn't a threat. Asfaloth came up, tossing his head back in a chiming of bells and greeted the new arrival as he might a kin while Ithilum stood by and blew air in their general direction. Shadowfax nickered in return and turned to Gandalf, who laid a welcoming hand on his withers.

"The wraiths will be back," said he, climbing onto Shadowfax. "We must find Frodo before they do."

Harry nodded and clicked his tongue. "Tolo, Ithilum."

To Gandalf and Glorfindel, he pointed where his tracking charms beckoned. "They are that way, perhaps a day's ride away. We may meet them tonight or in the morning."

Dawn was growing in the sky when they had been talking, brilliantly bright, and Harry closed his eyes, dispelling the magic that he had used for seeing in the dark.

"Good," said Glorfindel with some feeling. "I do not much like to think of Bilbo's kinfolk walking in these lands in such times, even had they a Ranger. However skilled, he is but one man and the dangers are many."

* * *

They rode on furiously, bolstered by the thought that they were coming at last to the end of the chase. Morning turned to noon and the trio slowed down to allow their horses a rest and a drink in a small stream. Harry, who had been unpleasantly reintroduced to all the pains of horse-riding since the previous day, spent the time rubbing out the soreness from a great many places while Glorfindel and Gandalf talked loudly of how fine the conditions were for riding and the furthest distance they had traveled on a horse without pausing.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day Glorfindel and Harry had set out from Rivendell, they came upon the hobbits. Or, perhaps more accurately, Thorongil sprang out at them.

"Hail!" He called, bursting from a berry bush, and then, with evident relief, exclaimed, "Gandalf! Glorfindel!"

"Good morning," said Gandalf, tipping his hat with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Well met, Dúnadan," said Glorfindel, and dismounted swiftly.

Voices came from another bush up the slope, and then all four hobbits were clambering out of the hazels, a grey pony trailing behind them.

"Meriadoc, Peregrin Took, Samwise, and Frodo," the Istar listed. "Hm, I'm afraid I do not know the name of the pony."

"He is Bill, Mister Gandalf. We got him from Bill Ferny." The hobbit identified as Samwise beamed and rubbed the pony's side.

"He looks as if he will be a magnificent beast in time," Gandalf said generously.

Harry eyed the scrawny creature doubtfully. In a _long_ time, perhaps. The Istar dismounted, as did Harry, and gestured. "This is Glorfindel of Rivendell and–"

"Harald," Harry supplied helpfully, certain than the hobbits would better appreciate a name in Westron than one in Sindarin.

"–Harald, both of whom have come from Rivendell to ensure that you will reach there safely."

"Elves!" Samwise exclaimed. "Why, we just met a group of them not two weeks ago. Begging your pardon, sirs, but they seemed a little different from you."

Elves? In these far lands? Harry tilted his head and exchanged a glance with Glorfindel.

"Might they be Gildor Inglorion and his House?" asked the elf.

"Yes," the blond, Peregrin, chimed in. "And they left us with a lot of food when they departed."

In a softer voice probably not meant to be heard but was nonetheless heard by all present, the hobbit muttered, "and they had really good bread too…"

Harry quashed a grin and glanced at Gandalf when Thorongil spoke up. "What is the arrangement now?"

"We must ride to Rivendell with haste. Already the Enemy had caught us at Weathertop. We have chased them away, but there is little doubt that they will strike again."

"We have no horses," Thorongil said, spreading his hands. "Surely you do not mean for all of us to burden your three?"

"That is not a problem," Harry said, cutting in. "I have means of producing horses for everyone."

Thorongil looked at him curiously.

"Everyone be prepared to leave quickly once you are on a horse," Harry continued. "The wraiths will know where we are the moment I begin transfiguring, noon sun or no. Everyone knows how to ride?"

Nods.

"Alright. Frodo, you'll will be borne by Ithilum." He clicked his tongue and the dark stallion ambled over, eyeing the small hobbits. "He shall bear you until both of you are within Rivendell's borders."

"I will not ride him and leave my friends behind in danger," Frodo said indignantly. "I will also not take your horse from you."

"I have my own ways and you need not worry." Harry smiled, suddenly reminded of history by the hobbit's protest. "No one will be left behind. I did not lie when I said I can produce horses. Besides, even if all of us are walking and you alone riding, I doubt the Nazgûl will come to us. After all, it is that which you carry that brings the peril."

Frodo reached for his pocket, seemed to think better of it, and dropped his hands to his side. "I see."

Harry hummed. "Do not worry about falling," he said as he helped the hobbit onto the stallion. "Elven horses run smoothly and lightly, and Ithilum will not let you fall."

The hobbit nodded, perhaps a little skeptically, and threaded his fingers through Ithilum's black mane. Softly, Harry spoke his horse, "Bear him well, Ithilum. We shall be pressed by enemies ere we come to the Ford. Run swiftly! You have the spirit of the wind—the foul wraiths will never catch you."

Ithilum puffed, tossing his proud head, and nuzzled Harry's hand. The wizard smiled and stepped back. It's time for some transfiguring.

Under five pairs of confused, inquisitive eyes, he picked out four rocks from the ground and placed them each a distance away on the road. A few flicks of his wand later and there was three ponies and a horse pawing the ground. Tacks were conjured onto them, with additional cushioning charms placed on the saddles.

Five pairs of eyes stared.

"Quickly," said Harry. "The Ringwraiths cannot have failed to detect my use of magic at this range."

That seemed to snap Thorongil from his astonishment and he moved first, steering Meriadoc to the palomino before turning to the chestnut horse. He approached it cautiously, but when it gave no negative reaction to his presence, the Ranger bestrode it with easy grace.

"What about you?" he asked. "You will not ride with us?"

"No. I will go by another way. Now you must leave this scene ere the Nazgûl come investigating."

To Gandalf and Glorfindel who stood behind the hobbits and Thorongil, Harry gave imploring looks.

Gandalf, praise his lopsided grey hat, nodded. He spun the group around to face the road and questioned Thorongil about riding formations. There was a brief discussion and then Frodo was placed in the front and centre, flanked by Gandalf on his left and Thorongil on his right while the other hobbits rode behind and Glorfindel brought up the rear.

"Go go go," Harry urged once they had arranged themselves, and when the group had begun to move he transformed into his Animagus form and shot upwards, breaking away from the tree canopy.

There was a fierce wind blowing in the high altitudes, and Harry battled against the headwind for a glimpse of the wraiths. In the south of the forest there was a dark shape riding through the woods, almost hidden amid the shadows. He smiled grimly and banked to the right, carried higher by the wind. There was only one Nazgûl approaching—that was better than he had hoped.

Harry doubled back and turned for the Barrow-downs. It was far enough distance from the group that the wraith would be a long while delayed when it tried to catch up.

Twisting, he disapparated and reappeared in the fog-filled valley of the Wights. It seemed as if someone had gone into the mounds and laid their treasures out on the ground. Knives, jewels, and shields glistened against the green grass. Gold chains and gold rings, gold circlets and gold crowns. Things whose owners had long ago passed and left these lands. The enchantments of the Barrow-wights still lay on them, diminished by the sun's light but nonetheless still whispered softly of greed and failing courage, of abandonment and cursed living, half-lives and shades undying.

Harry shuddered. They were reminiscent of _failed_ Hallows that he had come across before in his travels, and the proximity to the artefacts made his skin crawl. He ignored it as best he can and turned his wand to the earth.

" _Bombarda._ "

The mound caved in, the tunnels beneath giving way. Its inhabitant remained suspiciously absent despite the attack on its dwelling, and Harry frowned. Who could have chased the Barrow-wights away?

He turned, demolishing another mound with a vicious flick. There was a glimmer of something shiny as it collapsed, but he did not inspect it too closely. It would take a while yet before the good light of the sun could burn the enchantments away, and he had little need of gold and silvers anyway, much less cursed ones as these.

A Nazgûl called out in the distance, and Harry flung more spells into the deserted mounds. Bright yellow, dark blue, red, purple. Any spell, harmless or harmful, would appear as lightning to the Nazgûl when they were close. A few light spells he shot into the air, hopefully enough of a beacon to attract the wraith. He conjured himself a comfy armchair and sat on it, wearing a most ridiculous vulture-hat on his head, and looked at the world through equally ridiculous multicoloured glasses. Because he had magic to spare, Harry decorated the armchair with little eagle figurines in a garish yellow. _Come on, come here_.

When a black shadow finally entered the valley near an hour later, the Barrow-downs had become Barrow-pits, and was now filled with an alarming amount of conjured items. Harry took off his blue-and-pink glasses as the wraith galloped towards him and blasted the few standing stones on the last hill for one last time. Then he ducked behind his chair and shifted forms, taking off into the air with a few strong strokes. The Ringwraith screeched, but by then he was already spiralling above the clouds, the wraith a mere speck beneath.

Putting the fuming Nazgûl behind him, Harry turned eastwards, following his tracking spells to reach Frodo and the others.

* * *

 **Helloo!**

 **So whatcha think, y'all? Better or worse? I do hope it's better XP.**

 **Next chapter out pretty soon. It's already half written and meant to be part of this chapter, but then I thought I should show something for half a year's absence, so it's cut and published first. (The fact that I'm getting my chemistry results tomorrow and would like some attenshun to distract from the sunken ship that is my grades plays no part in this decision, no siree.)**

 _Ithilum_ : Moon-shadow. (Ithil: Moon, lhum: shade/shadow) I mean, _come on_ , Asfaloth means Sunlit Foam! Moon-Shadow is totally legit besides that.

 _Na lim_ : be swift (na: to be, lim: swift/fast)

 _Tolo_ : come (Tol-: to come, -o: imperative)


	4. Chapter 3: Unforeseen Mishap

The others had slowed down, approaching the foot of the Weather Hills at a comfortable pace when Harry soared over them. No longer in immediate danger, the riders had loosened their formation. Frodo was riding alongside the other hobbits while Thorongil and Gandalf lead the way, seemingly deep in conversation. Glorfindel seemed to content to ride alone at the back, his face turned up at the sky. He saw Harry and waved, wrapping his left arm with some cloth before holding it out in invitation.

Harry spiralled down in large circles. Once, his shadow passed over Shadowfax's head and Gandalf turned to look up, the brim of his hat casting half his face in shadow. Thorongil too turned, something familiar in his grey eyes as he watched Harry's descent. Harry landed lightly and grasped onto Glorfindel's forearm as gently as he could, doing his best not to slice through the cloths and into the skin below. It wasn't easy, what with the movement of the horse, but he managed.

"You have drawn them away," said Glorfindel, bringing his hand back. "I sensed a Nazgûl ride south when you began using your magic. Wherever did you lead them to, Reviauron?"

 _Barrow-downs_ , Harry replied, lowering his guard to reach the elf's mind. Flashes of the Wights' valley, green mounds in white mist, and of treasure laid under sun passed between them.

"The jewellery will soon be taken by men once they have forgotten their fear of the Gorthad," Glorfindel commented, and Harry bobbed his head once in agreement.

Once the mists faded, some adventurous soul would enter the valley and find the wealth of gold. What they'd do with them was out of his concern.

"Is that Harald, Master Glorfindel?" Frodo asked, coming to ride on their left. "He can turn himself into an eagle?"

"Certainly," said Glorfindel, with a sideways glance at Harry. "He would spend many lifetimes of Man in this form if he could."

Frodo's eyes widened.

"Lifetimes of man," he echoed dubiously. "But he is not an Elf. You and Gandalf say he is a wizard. I do not understand; Gandalf is also a wizard, and yet Harald seems very different from him."

It was not quite a question, but Glorfindel took it as one.

Harry swivelled his head around, looking from hobbit to elf. He did not care for this conversation very much, but being currently of a non-talking species, it was a little hard to change the subject. He _could_ fly away, but that was too obvious an evasion. Experience had taught him that people liked to ponder mysteries, and thoughts had the nasty habit of turning into actions. Sooner or later he'd have to field a barrage of probes, subtle or otherwise.

Playing dumb and mute in a mute form was an immensely easier choice.

Harry promptly twisted his head back and began to preen.

"–Mithrandir, though, has another purpose. He has been charged with a mission of a nature that is beyond us, and sent here to aid the Free Peoples. As such, their powers are of different kinds."

Frodo nodded. Peregrin proved that he had been listening in when he turned around and exclaimed, "So can Harald make fireworks like Gandalf's? Everyone in the Shire knows that Gandalf makes the best fireworks."

Glorfindel laughed. "What say you, Reviauron?" He asked amusedly, and Harry looked at him through translucent eyelids. "Can you produce better fireworks than Mithrandir?"

In response, Harry lunged at the elf's nose, snapping his beak shut a scant inch from his eyes.

Glorfindel tsked and leaned towards the hobbits. "Mithrandir has the better fireworks," he said conspiratorially, ignoring Harry's air of offended outrage. "Reviauron managed to burn down a tree with his last firework. How had the poor sapling ever offended you, mellon nín?"

Harry remembered that incident. He'd been testing firework trails for midsummer's day. Several bad decisions happened. When Elrond had returned, Erestor's new peach tree was merrily crackling firewood and Glorfindel in tears of laughter.

With a sniff, Harry flicked his tail at the elf (he would have been _perfectly fine_ if a _someone_ hadn't had _ideas_ ) and pointedly turned his head away.

Peregrin snickered.

* * *

Presently around noon, Thorongil suggested that they pause for the hobbits to rest and eat, pointing out a good, semi-hidden location among the dells not too far away. It was met with hearty approval from said hobbits. ("He's learning about elevenses," said Peregrin—" _Pippin!"_ —to Meriadoc—" _Merry, if you please."—_ delightedly, and exchanged a high-five.)

The hobbits were the first to dismount and they sat down together in a small circle, rummaging in their packs. Thorongil was more sedate, and he moved around the hobbits until he was assured that they all had something to eat. The last to approach, Glorfindel wheeled around the group, examining the small valley they were in until he was satisfied by the conditions. Harry pushed off his arm-perch as they drew behind Gandalf and dropped to the ground, straightening again as a human wizard. For half a heartbeat, he held himself perfectly still and adjusted to his new orientation.

The Istar turned, a pipe held to his lips. "It has been a while."

"A while," Harry agreed, stepping beside him. He watched as a small spark fell from Gandalf's fingertips and lit the pipe.

The last time they had a proper conversation was… Well. It's been nearly sixty years now, and charging through the countryside was hardly conducive to talk of the social kind.

"What have you been scheming in these past years?" Harry asked, glancing sideways with a grin.

"Both you and Elrond seem constantly to be under the impression that I am plotting something," Gandalf grumbled. He blew two smoke rings, one within the other. "Few others think of me as suspiciously as you two do."

"Ah, but we _know_ you," Harry said wisely, waving away the retaliatory smoke dragon that dove for his head. "What are your plans now?"

For a moment, the Istar was silent, puffing on his pipe.

"Saruman's treachery has been a terrible blow," he said at last, looking into the distance.

Harry winced, and Glorfindel, who was talking to Thorongil, looked at them sharply without pausing in his speech.

"What is the extent of his dealings with the Enemy?"

"Saruman would sooner take the Ring for himself than have the Dark Lord reclaim it," was the heavy response. "But he would, I think, let us weaken Sauron before he makes his move."

Such a grim alliance built upon treachery.

Harry nodded stiffly. Did Saruman believe that Sauron would win this war or had he simply been drawn by the allure of being the master of Middle-earth? Surely he could not think that those in the West would look kindly upon him for such treachery.

A chill wind swept through the clearing and Gandalf sighed.

Harry bowed his head. He would question Saruman when he went to find the Istar.

"What of Radagast? Does he still hold true?"

He liked the eccentric Istar, who'd always been a good friend among the Eyries and cared greatly for the woods.

"Yes," said Gandalf, and he chuckled. "Radagast the Simple he may be to Saruman, but he is also the most honest. No, Radagast is with us."

And of the Blue Istari? Harry wondered but did not ask. They had long ago journeyed away and though he himself had traveled East, there was naught but ghosts and shadows that remained of them. Five had set sail from the distant shores. Now two were missing and one in darkness.

It was not a pleasant thought.

He curled his lips in a semblance of a smile and shook his head. "We should hasten to Rivendell."

"Indeed, Master Harald," Gandalf said, raising his voice. "We will be on the road once the hobbits have finished eating and eavesdropping."

The hobbits, who'd been steadily moving closer even as they were seated, startled and looked up guiltily.

"Who's Radagast?" Pippin asked, not at all ashamed at being caught.

"Radagast the Brown," said Gandalf as he helped Frodo and Merry to their feet, "is one of my order."

"He is a wizard?" Frodo looked from Harry to Gandalf, as if trying to imagine a third person with both their traits.

"Has Bilbo not mentioned him in his stories at all?" Gandalf questioned, bushy brows raised. "Radagast aided the Company shortly before they came to Rivendell."

The hobbits shared a look.

"I've never heard Mister Bilbo say anything about another wizard," Sam confessed. "But maybe I didn't remember his tales right."

"No, Sam," Frodo said, shaking his head. "I never did either, and I am sure I remember them correctly."

"Oh?" Gandalf gave his pipe another puff, "Well, _I_ may have remembered it wrongly. It has been some years. Did Bilbo say if Thorin arrived on time?"

Pippin tried to suppress his laughter, but it grew to a full chortle when Merry said with great solemnity, "He was bottommost at the door."

The other hobbits joined in his laughter and Gandalf smiled, mirth in his eyes.

Evidently, Harry was missing something in the conversation. Beside him, Thorongil seemed similarly bemused. Must be a Shire thing, he thought, until he glimpsed Glorfindel from the corner of his eye. The elf was grinning knowingly.

Sensing his gaze, Glorfindel turned, still smiling. "The Erebor Quest as told by Bilbo Baggins, of late a guest at Imladris," he said in response to Harry's unasked question, voice only just loud enough to be heard.

Ah.

That was a story he hadn't heard yet. Gandalf's formal edition, told before the White Council, had contained little of dwarves, and his other version contained more grumbling about stubborn hard-headed fools than the quest itself.

Perhaps he'll meet the hobbit at Rivendell. It'll be good to hear the entire adventure from someone who'd been there the entire time.

"Mithrandir," said Glorfindel once the laughter had died away. "We must continue riding."

"Indeed." Gandalf switched his staff to his other hand and looked around, whistling a high note.

Across, Shadowfax pricked his ears up and cantered over, Ithilum and Asfaloth just behind. Harry reached for the faint bonds that linked his transfigured horses to him and pulled on them. The ponies raised their heads and moved over. Thorongil helped Frodo onto Ithilum and turned around to mount his own, a copper dun.

"Do not fear," he muttered, patting its side. He startled when Harry spoke.

"It's no use. These aren't real beasts; they do not feel. Once the transfiguration ends they return to the stones whence they were changed."

"It is not alive?" Thorongil asked, turning his horse around.

Harry shook his head.

"It is alive only in that it exist, as it had a stone. It's nature is unchanged. I have only given it a new shape and order." He smiled wanly at the man. "I do not create life, Dúnadan."

Once, he had. But those were times he missed little and thought less of, and it was all for the best, really.

Gandalf had started to lead the hobbits out of the dell, and Thorongil looked between them and Harry.

"You are not coming with us?" he asked, nudging the dun forward into a slow walk.

"I am," Harry said, "only perhaps not beside you."

"Nonsense," said a voice above him, followed by the jingle of bells. "Asfaloth is more than capable of bearing both of us. You shall ride with me."

Harry turned around and looked up, an eyebrow raised. "I am faster," he said in exasperation. "And I will only hinder your movement if we are both on Asfaloth."

"You can shield the hobbits and my left when you ride," countered Glorfindel. "Besides, you have already spent at least two years feathered."

Two years wasn't quite that long. Harry sighed as he mounted Asfaloth, and made sure to convey his utmost exasperation at the elf's insistence. Honestly, it wasn't as if he'd have the mindset of a bird by staying in the form of one for too long. Still, he conceded the point that staying close to the hobbits was probably better than keeping a lookout from afar.

At a nudge from Glorfindel, Asfaloth caught up and resumed his position at the rear of the group. The bells of his headstall caused Pippin to look back. Upon seeing Harry's raised eyebrow, the hobbit grinned cheerfully and turned away.

Thorongil drew up beside them, scrutinising.

"The bells," he said thoughtfully, "do not sound right."

"Oh?" said Glorfindel, and Harry hear his grin in his voice. "How so, Dúnadan?"

For moment the Ranger was silent, and the only sounds were the heavy tread of horses and the light ringing of bells.

"They sound _after_ the movement," he said, brows drawn. "Not as you move. You have delayed the chimes in some manner."

"Indeed. Well spotted, Dúnadan," Glorfindel said proudly, as Asfaloth tossed his head. "Though it is not I who have delayed the bells. Reviauron enchanted them after they were made. Most people do not realise that they are listening to the bells and their motions are often misdirected."

Harry was proud of those. Even the Nazgûl, which do not usually rely on their hearing, were sometimes fooled by the delayed chimes. It's the small details that often mattered.

"It is useful," said Thorongil, a little wistfully, and dipped his head before nudging his steed forward to ride beside Sam.

* * *

They made it through the day without incident, and found a small area past Amon Sûl for the night. Neither Gandalf nor Glorfindel felt the ruins of the watchtower made a good camp, particularly when evidence of their fight against the Nazgûl two days prior was still plain to the eyes. They did not, however, stray too far from the watchtower, if only to prevent its occupation by other, less desirable beings. In the end, they set up camp in one of the larger crevices at the base of the hill facing the North, which was relatively more hidden from view.

Knowing what the other was thinking, Harry spoke. "I will keep watch on the tower. You are too visible."

Glorfindel drew his gaze away from the hobbits and looked at him.

"You must rest," he said firmly. The silver of moonlight shining down through a rift in the stones above casted his face in an unworldly glow, which only enhanced his air of disapproval.

"I will join Harald," said a new voice, and they turned to look at Thorongil. "We can keep watch in shifts so that both of us may get to rest."

"We can do that," Harry said, beaming. "Does that ease your mind?"

"It is an improvement," the elf admitted. "Very well, I will remain here."

He followed them to the entrance of the crevice and seated himself just out of sight of anyone who was looking in.

A cool breeze ran through Harry's hair once he had exited the rocky cleft. It seemed to be a cloudless night, and stars glimmered proudly in the sky. The Valacirca was particularly bright in the North, with all seven stars in full view. Perhaps tonight both the wraiths and their master would heed the warning and stay away, though Harry snorted softly at the thought.

The footpath to Amon Sûl was just preserved enough to make ascent possible, if not particularly easy. Some steps were shaky and others were completely worn away, leaving steep gaps between one and the next. They climbed in silence broken only by warnings of damaged steps.

"How had a Ranger like you come to meet the hobbits?" Harry asked, when they had finally come to the top of the hill.

Thorongil, who had seemed content to walk in silence, seemed a little surprised by the sudden question.

"Gandalf had told me something of Frodo's errand before he left," he said. "I only had to go to Bree, and it is close to where my men and I were dwelling, to verify it for myself."

"You are the Chieftain of the Dúnedain?" Harry asked, several suspicions in mind. Gandalf had a tendency to collect people of certain kinds.

Thorongil blinked. "Indeed. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, though men in these lands would recognise me sooner as Strider."

That certainly explained many things. Dúnedain do travel to a great many places, but few had ever served the King of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor.

"Well met, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who is also Strider," _and Thorongil,_ Harry said with a small smile. "I am Reviauron, recently Harald, and infrequently—thankfully—Calahen."

Aragorn returned the smile and looked up at the sky. "The night is not young," he observed. "I do not mind taking the first watch. You may rest and appease Lord Glorfindel."

The last was said in jest, and Harry gave a light laugh.

"I suppose I have no choice," he said, sitting down crosslegged by the base of a crumbled wall. He leaned back and closed his eyes to the sight of starry sky.

* * *

It was three hours till dawn when Harry roused. Aragorn was crouching beside him, an arm extended as if to tap him. When he saw that Harry was awake, the Ranger withdrew his arm.

"There are three more hours to dawn," he said.

Harry glanced upwards and stood. "Thank you. I'll rouse you when the others wake."

They traded places. The eastern sky was still dark, though the moon had nearly completed its journey. As Aragorn settled down, Harry shook himself and changed, fluttering up to the peak of yet uncrumbled wall. The additional height was not quite enough to give an entirely new perspective, but it did allow him to see the base of the hill without moving to the tower edge.

Pale mist had crept over the land, covering the shrubbery with eddying white when the sun's light finally mustered itself over the Misty Mountains. Glorfindel exited the cave when the sun itself ascended the mountains. His hair was brilliantly gold, whirling in the air as he turned to face the hill-top.

"Good morning," he mouthed, and Harry turned his head to look at him with both eyes.

As he did so, he became abruptly aware of a shadow rising from a hollow to his left. It glided forward beneath the sea of fog, a dark mass impenetrable to even his eyes. Were it not moving with hurried urgency he would have missed it completely. Harry stilled, tilting his head. His eyes bled green, then slipped into something darker as he sank momentarily into the Unseen.

He was right.

Harry screamed, and at his cry Glorfindel jerked his head around. He stared at the shadow, which had stilled in the distance, and sprang into action. As the elf roused the hobbits, Harry leapt down the tower and found Aragorn already standing.

"They are here," he said to the Ranger, grabbing his arm.

Glorfindel was preparing the horses when they apparated down the ruins. Aragorn stumbled and nearly fell, were it not for Harry's tight grip on his arm. The elf grimaced, having no love for apparition himself, and led the Ranger to his horse. Few moments later, Gandalf led four groggy hobbits out from the hill, his brows drawn in worry when he looked south and saw the approaching Nazgûl.

"We must fly," he said to them. "A sorcery lies upon them."

Frodo looked at him, eyes wide, and was silent when he was helped onto Ithilum. This time, Harry did not protest and straddled Asfaloth, wand drawn.

In a short moment, they were away from Weathertop. When Harry glanced behind, the Nazgûl were fast on their heels. The sun had burned away their cover of fog and shadow, but they retained their unnatural swiftness.

Five were behind, and two were flanking them on both sides.

Harry raised his right hand. A jet of fire spewed from the Elder Wand, cutting before the wraith trying to overtake them. Its horse reared back in a manner that would have thrown a man off its back, but the wraith only screeched, quickly left behind in the chase.

Glorfindel exclaimed. A clash of metal on his left distracted Harry and he turned to see a Nazgûl alongside them, exchanging blows with the elf.

"Ware!" Harry called, and Glorfindel drew back just before the wraith caught fire. It fell behind, horse and rider shrieking.

Another wraith had taken advantage of their momentary distraction and surged ahead. Pippin cried out to see it beside him, and his pony fled right. Merry swerved to avoid crashing into him, causing Sam to peel away from the formation. Harry cursed and reached for the spell-threads of his transfigurations. The ponies shook off their instinctual terror, returning to their positions. His intervention came a moment too late; a black rider shot forward and Sam was cut off, sandwiched between two wraiths.

A hobbit shouted, but it was lost in the roar of wind and thundering hoofbeats.

The Nazgûl to Sam's right made a hideous rasping noise, as if a chuckle. A shadow came upon them as clouds covered the sun, and Harry glimpsed a ring on a skeletal hand.

"Witch-king!" he snarled, leaning over Glorfindel's bright arm. Flames shot from his hand and wrapped around the dull leg of the wraith's steed.

He pulled.

Sam gave a muffled cry and the chief of the Nazgûl tipped forward as his horse went down beneath him.

"Noro forn," Glorfindel called, with a soft curse under his breath, and Asfaloth veered to the right.

As he came upon the second wraith with all the blazing fury of an elf-lord with a grudge, Harry twisted under his arm and slashed his wand at the four Nazgûl still behind them. The horses cried out and fell, struck lame. The wraiths upon them screeched, but Harry was already turning away. To his right, Glorfindel had thrust his sword into the hollow of the wraith's cloak. It struck between ghostly ribs and the Nazgûl dropped away with a cry.

Harry shook his head, colours seeping back into his vision, and looked beside him. Sam was slumped forward, though from the side he could see no injury. Perhaps the hobbit was affected by the Black Breath.

Light flared ahead, and they passed by a riderless horse. The last of the Nazgûl.

Without cues, Sam's pony slowed. Harry fiddled with his spell and cautiously prodded it back into a gallop, wary of Sam toppling from its back.

For another few leagues they rode on, until Gandalf brought them to a slow halt when he deemed they were sufficiently far ahead.

"You are uninjured?" he demanded, wheeling around from the front.

"They did not touch us," Glorfindel replied calmly. "But I worry for Samwise."

The Istar too had saw Sam, and his brows pinched together. Harry slipped off Asfaloth, and went beside the hobbit. His eyes were closed, his face pale.

"Is he hurt?" Pippin asked, nudging his pony closer to look.

"I don't know," Harry started, before he saw a tear in the hobbit's coat.

Perhaps it was not the Black Breath that had overwhelmed Sam.

"The Witch-king held a knife," Glorfindel said, approaching with the ringing of bells. "I fear he caught Samwise with it when he fell."

"A Morgul-blade?" Gandalf rapidly dismounted to help Harry lay Sam onto the grass.

"If it was such a knife it would be gone now," Harry said, turning the hobbit. There was a single bloodless hole on his right side, marked by a small tear at one edge where the blade had nicked his coat while entering. He cut through the layers, exposing the injury, and heard a sharp intake of breath as Gandalf leaned forward over the small, deadly, wound.

"Morgul," Harry said softly.

It was better than being stabbed by the Witch-king's sword, but only in the sense that while one was a messy, bloody affair, the other was clean magical torment.

"I will go look for athelas," Aragorn said. "Some still grow south of the Road."

He exchanged a few words with Glorfindel and Frodo before turning his horse around. Hoofbeats signalled his departure.

"Oh Sam," Frodo said wretchedly, dropping by Sam's side to grasp his hand. "It shouldn't be you. It should've been me. I'm sorry."

"Do not say that Frodo," Harry said, raising his eyes to meet the hobbit's. "It should have been _no one_. This blame belongs to Sauron, for it is at his will the wraiths move and it is by him that all Morgul-knives are made."

Frodo looked at him with wide eyes.

"This is not your fault," Harry said, softer and gentler, but just as firmly.

When the hobbit looked away, he turned to Gandalf. "The shard must be removed quickly. Can you keep him from waking?"

The Istar nodded, face grave, and pressed a hand to Sam's forehead. Harry took a deep breath and stared down at the wound.

It reeked of sorcery and the slickness that was Sauron's signature. Dark globs of congealing blood stuck to his fingers when he probed the wound, and he vanished them as he withdrew his hands.

He lightly pressed the tip of his wand to the opening of the wound. _Accio_.

The shard retaliated, its sorcery not yet dispersed into the entire body. Sam twitched.

Harry grasped the shard, felt it grind against his magic, and pulled.

It broke with silent snap, and he drew from the wound a dark chip. Blood oozed anew, red mingling with sticky black. He set the piece onto the grass, and reached for the other fragment still within Sam.

It evaded him, slipping from his reach, edging further downwards.

With a growl, he flooded the wound with magic. Distantly, he was aware of Glorfindel singing a tune only faintly familiar. The shard halted, and Harry pulled.

Again, the piece broke, a small silver embedding itself deep. He snarled in frustration, dropping the piece on the grass.

Gandalf placed a hand over his as he reached for the new fragment.

"He cannot endure so many," the Istar warned, eyes grim. "This must be your last."

Wordless, Harry nodded.

For the third time, he laid the tip of the Elder Wand against Sam. " _Accio_."

The silver of Morgul-blade crumbled as he grappled with it. Pinpricks of fiery dark stood out amidst his magic and dark clumps bled from the wound. Harry vanished each as soon as they appeared with an angry flick. Removing all traces of the sorcery was impossible now.

As if in a taunt, a chill touched his senses and withdrew abruptly before he could seize it. He gathered himself and waited for it to strike again with the air of a starving predator.

Someone clapped his shoulder.

Harry started.

"The wound needs to be washed. You did well, my friend," Glorfindel said in a low voice, and stood up.

Harry sat down, legs stiff from kneeling for what seemed to be hours, and looked up. The visage of an elf coalesced from a haze of brightness in an almost dizzying swirl.

"I did not."

He'd failed. Elrond would do what he can, but the hobbit would always bear a shadow of Sauron upon him for as long as he lived.

"You have done what you could in such circumstance," protested Glorfindel. "You know how the Morgul-blades are; they mark all their victims. You have removed enough that Samwise will feel very little from what remains–"

"That would be comforting were I not the one who caused his injury," Harry drawled, and shook his head. "Sam was not their target. The Witch-king would not have spent his knife on him had I not tripped his horse."

"Had you not tripped his horse then the ring-bearer would have fallen into greater peril— _a Ringwraith_ , Reviauron." Glorfindel looked appalled. "The Dark Lord would not look favourably upon him."

Harry shook his head again wearily and looked around, curling and uncurling his fingers.

The sun had escaped its cover of clouds and now shone down on them with a sort of wintry warmth. A camp had been set up behind him, and not too far away a fire burned. Only now did he register the sweet fragrance of athelas in the air.

The scent intensified as Aragorn approached with a bowl of water.

"His wound must be cleaned," said he, setting it down.

Harry nodded, noting the warmth emanating from the bowl, and scooted aside to give Aragorn space.

"The Black Riders would not attack again so soon," Gandalf said. "And many of them are also no longer Riders, if I have seen correcly. We can linger here a while."

"Three of them are still in possession of horses," Harry said, tilting his head back to look at the Istar after a quick tally. "Mitheithel is a good place for an ambush."

Gandalf considered it as he puffed on his pipe.

"Unlikely," he declared at last. "They are weakened and outnumbered without their horses. Rarely do the Nine strike when the odds are against them."

That was a good point. However…

"We must still travel with haste and caution," the Istar continued. "That the Nazgûl do not usually act thus does not mean that their master may not order them otherwise, for he greatly desires the Ring."

This was met with nods all around.

"How is he?" Harry asked, coldness still lingering in his fingertips, when Aragorn stood up after dressing Sam's wound.

Aragorn paused. "He will, I think, make a good recovery, now that the shard is removed. For now he shall continue to sleep."

In response, Harry smiled crookedly and looked into the distance. A breeze bent the grass on the side of the Road and shook the trees in the distance.

Abruptly, he stood up, feeling an urge to be left undisturbed. To Gandalf, he canted his head towards the field of grass and strode away. As he passed the unmarked boundary of the camp, Glorfindel's sharp gaze fell upon him, almost burning with its intensity. Without pausing, Harry raised the hood of his cloak and willed for invisibility.

The wind carried to him the sound of Aragorn's surprised murmur and Gandalf's low explanation, both of which he ignored as he left the camp behind him.

* * *

 **Uhhhhh hello err'bodies, welcome back to Chapter 3...?** **Really sorry about the long wait :/** **I got caught up with a fair lot of stuff.**

 **I've been scheduling my life a little bit recently, and the good thing is that I reckon that I have enough time to finish a chapter every two weeks, which _should_ then mean that I can finally finish this fic ...next September. Good god. But it will be finished, WATCH ME, because I am very _done_ with reading all my old incomplete writing. By hook by crook or by human sacrifice Wind Lord shall be made complete so ten years later future-me can come back to read this with full satisfaction and be proud of past-me for actually accomplishing something. Yes. **

**See you on the 11th (because of a spontaneous week-long trip oops) and happy holidays and a new year!**

 **(wow this AN had very little to do with the chapter itself but I have no idea what to say so oh well. Am I rambling again? I feel like I'm rambling again alright nevermind full stop goodbye.)**


	5. Chapter 4: The Counsel

When Harry returned, evening had drawn shadowy drapes all around the camp. A small campfire, half-obscured by the hobbits huddled around it, provided a spot of light on the quickly darkening field. With great relief, he spotted Sam seated up, leaning forward to the fire interestedly as someone across him—Merry, perhaps—spoke, gesturing largely.

Awake was good. Awake and functional was great.

Glorfindel was seated with Aragorn among the hobbits, the light of the fire turning his hair a dark shade of gleaming copper. Gandalf stood facing away, rings of smoke drifting upwards as he gazed into the west.

Between one step and the next, Harry returned to visibility behind Gandalf and spoke over the Istar's shoulder. "How does he fare?"

Mid-inhale, Gandalf spluttered, coughing so hard in his cloud of smoke that Aragorn turned to look in mild concern. Harry blinked guilelessly at him, bewilderment all over his face. With eyebrows drawn high and a small, lopsided smile, Aragorn looked back down, moving his hand deftly along the side of his knife with a rag.

Quite recovered by then, Gandalf turned around.

"I see you have returned," he said, drier than the sands of Harad. "Sam is quite well, thanks to you, but I cannot say the same of myself."

Harry drew back in affected affront. "Why do you blame me for that which you inflict upon yourself? Didn't you hear? Smoking shortens the lifespan."

With smoke billowing around his head, Gandalf smiled blandly. "That is a price I suppose I can pay."

Harry snorted. Certainly, that was a price Gandalf could more than afford. Neither of them were lacking for years.

"We stay here for the night, I assume?" he asked instead, reaching for his wand.

At Gandalf's nod, he stepped back and raised it. Let the Nazgûl sense his magic if they could. Without their steeds they were crippled and blind, no longer formidable foes but still an ever-present threat. He had failed once; he would not let the wraiths come close again.

With a thin, shallow line, Harry marked a circle around the camp, and jabbed his wand into the air above it. Light wards, which drew their power from him rather than the world, sprang into existence and ran pale gold along the groove before fading into transparency.

As they settled, Frodo shivered, as if feeling the wards' presence around him. Harry cocked his head and studied him curiously. Perhaps this sensitivity was an effect of the Ring? After all, its full abilities were known only by Sauron himself and none other. Not even Celebrimbor, who had known him best, had guessed its purpose until his betrayal.

Though in the end, Celebrimbor may have learnt its full abilities first-hand, but by then he could tell no one.

With a sigh, Harry shifted his thoughts back to the current. As he scanned the camp, Pippin looked up and caught his eye. The hobbit ducked his head abruptly and leaned towards Sam, whispering. His words were too soft to be heard across the distance, but Harry read his meaning from his lips.

"He's back. There, close to Gandalf."

Sam straightened quickly, back turning to behind. His expression brightened as he caught Harry's gaze, and he got to his feet. Frodo caught his blanket before it could fall and draped it across his shoulders. Sam bore the care without fidgeting, but he made a beeline for Harry at a speed that betrayed his impatience.

"Mister Harald!" Sam exclaimed, as Harry laid a privacy charm on them with a discrete twist of his wand. "Mister Frodo and Merry told me what you've done earlier. Thank you very much for healing me, sir!"

His earnestness caused Harry to feel a twinge of guilt.

"You are most welcome," he said, with a smile he did not entirely feel. "But your words do me more credit than due. The Witch-king would not have given you that wound had I not interfered when I did. I'm sorry, Sam."

He dipped his head in a bow, and Sam made an indignant noise in the back of his throat.

"Begging your pardon but that's nonsense, sir. You only meant to help, you did, and it's jus' rotten luck that he chose me to fall on. Why, he was trying to hurt Mister Frodo! He had to be stopped, and I'm awfully glad you did." Sam paused and glanced around a little warily, lowering his voice. "Surely he won't be coming back again, Mister Harald? We must've outran them now."

"The Riders won't bother us for a while," Harry replied, leaning back on his heels. He tilted his head. "You will be less forgiving, I think, when your side begins to hurt, and the shadow of the Enemy echoes within you as he reaches for the edges of the world."

"My gaffer said that forgiveness is not something you can take back, and you already have mine," Sam said firmly. "Though why you think you ought to seek it is beyond me. You were only defending us like Strider and Mister Gandalf and Mister Glorfindel."

For one thing, none of the others had caused his injury as a direct consequence of their action. And honestly, he should have remembered that the Nazgûl were capable of hiding under Sauron's sorcery to stay unseen. A few decades were not long enough to forget the knowledge of an Age. Harry regarded Sam silently and intently, and felt, somehow, unspeakably impressed with the hobbit.

Although Harry had most often journeyed under the guise of a man and kept away from their settlements, there were times when he ventured into villages and cities, and times when he revealed his magic. Always, the response had been first awe and fear, then requests and favours demanded or bought. Sam, though with a cause far worthier than most, had rejected it all and sought neither repayments or some future favour.

It was, Harry found, a refreshing change.

Sam took his silence as a sign that the conversation was over and beamed brightly at him.

"Why, I think we still have some mushrooms left," he said, perking up. "Come have some with us, Mister Harald."

* * *

By noon of the third day, they had come to Mitheithel. Despite Harry's concerns, the Nazgûl did not strike. Twice, however, Glorfindel had looked over his shoulder and reported a dark figure behind them, the lone wraith on its horse, and once more they saw it as they were crossing the bridge.

Harry narrowed his eyes, keeping the Nazgûl within sight as it appeared at the top of a grassy hill too great a distance away for Mannish eyes to see. It disappeared after they reached the eastern bank, though doubtlessly it would appear again the next day. The Nazgûl was strangely careful to maintain a distance between them, seemingly content with watching their journey.

They chose not to inform the hobbits of their unwelcome follower, but Harry noticed that Sam, though he complained not once, sometimes moved a little stiffly when the wraith was near. Frodo had picked up a little on their tension, and he too seemed to be able to sense when the wraith appeared. He had recently taken to keeping a hand in his coat pocket almost all the time; a habit that caused Harry no little concern.

Gandalf, if he was worried, made no comment, but he slowed Shadowfax to match Ithilum's pace, and was always in the midst of regaling Frodo (and the other hobbits) with one story or another just when Frodo would reach for his pocket.

The Ford was all too welcoming a sight when they finally came to it. With Aragorn in the lead, they made their way down the cliffside-paths, Pippin and Merry maintaining a conversation above the _clip-clop_ of hooves on hard ground to keep away the silence. The Bruinen was shallow as they crossed, the cold rushing waters barely up to even the ponies' knees.

The back of Harry's neck prickled abruptly, and he turned with such speed that his head collided with the side of Glorfindel's jaw.

"Sorry," he said automatically, but his mind was away.

A copse of tall pines stood at the top of the red-stone cliffs, throwing a deep shadow down the cliffs as the sun angled just so. For a moment, his eyes flashed gold, and he pierced the depth of the shadows to see a ghastly hooded face looking back.

The Nazgûl looked at him a second longer and retreated, but Harry could still sense its presence and the cold shadow it cast. He kept his gaze on the cliff, until Asfaloth turned up the stone steps on the path to Rivendell and he had no choice but to turn around.

He had a rather bad feeling about this.

* * *

Elrond met them at the bottom of the stairs in the courtyard, his face grim as he paced its length. When he saw them, however, he smiled widely, and it seemed all the lines had vanished from his face.

"Welcome back Mithrandir, Estel," he said, and the Istar was the first to dismount, hopping off Shadowfax to embrace him briefly but no less warmly. Aragorn—because Harry knew everyone else and none bore the name of hope—went second, and stepped back with the relaxed air of someone who had just returned home. Elrond continued. "And fair greetings to you, Bilbo's kinsmen from the Shire. I am Elrond, and I bid you welcome to my house."

"A star shines on the hour of our meeting," Frodo said, with surprising fluency in Sindarin, and bowed. "I am Frodo Baggins, and these are my friends; Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and Samwise Gamgee."

As each heard their name, all but Sam paused in their wide-eyed staring to bow. Sam was far too entranced, drinking in the sight as if he may never see again. Belatedly, he realised his turn, and smiled sheepishly at Elrond.

Then, more urgently and with some amazement, Frodo asked, "Do you mean that you have seen Bilbo? Is he here?"

"He is indeed," said Elrond fondly. "He would have wanted to be here to greet you, but he has fallen asleep and I thought it best not to wake him."

"Ah, I'm sorry for interrupting," Harry said, cutting in swiftly before Frodo could reply. He smiled apologetically at the hobbit, and said to Elrond in a low voice, "Sam was injured with a Morgul-knife three days ago. Your skill at the healing arts are far greater than mine, and I would be more at ease if you would examine him."

Elrond's lips tightened. "I will what I can to help him," he promised, and turned to address his guests in Common. "You must be tired and hungry from the road. There are rooms already set aside for you, and a hot meal will be prepared."

The hobbits cheered. Frodo, having perhaps understood something of their Sindarin exchange, wore a pinched, worried expression, looking from Harry and Elrond, to Sam.

"Samwise, I would have a moment with you, if you please."

The hobbit turned to face Elrond uncertainly.

"You need not worry," Harry told him. "I would just like a proper healer to look you over, and there's none better than Elrond. You'd be joining dinner as soon as we're done."

Sam nodded slowly.

"But he looks fine!" Pippin protested. "Surely Sam's all recovered now?"

"It is best never to underestimate the Enemy, Peregrin Took," Gandalf said sternly, startling the hobbit as he suddenly loomed behind him. "Come with me, all of you. I know enough of Rivendell to take you to your rooms."

Harry gave him a small grateful smile as the Istar turned and shepherded the hobbits up the stairs and into the buildings proper. Aragorn moved after him, pausing to exchange a few words with Elrond before he disappeared down a corridor.

Someone came for the horses, and Harry snapped his fingers, remembering this time to unmake his transfigurations. The living horses do not usually mind animated ones on the field, but they do—sometimes violently so—object to being stabled together, curiously. The elf who'd been reaching for the reins blinked, wide-eyed, as it vanished and fell to the floor with the hard _crack_ of stone. Harry shrugged in a half-hearted apology, and turned to steer Sam up the stairs behind Elrond, who'd began questioning the hobbit on how his wound felt.

When they've reached the infirmary, the elf-lord poked and prodded Sam through a thorough inspection. At the end of the hour, the hobbit was finally released to have some dinner and rest.

"He is better than I would have expected," Elrond concluded, washing his hands. "I assume your immediate removal of the Morgul shard, though incomplete, played a role in his quick recovery. If he had carried it in him through the week ere his arrival, the tale would be rather different."

Without looking, he raised his voice. "Come in, Glorfindel. You have hardly any cause to be loitering at the door."

Glorfindel grinned and slipped inside, joining Harry on the bed had been Sam's. He had changed into an attire softer and less dusty than riding gear, and the sight of it made Harry itch for a proper bath. Cleaning charms were certainly convenient, but sometimes the mind required a little more convincing before feeling clean.

Once Elrond had put away his instruments, they left the infirmary for his study.

Gandalf turned as they stepped into the room, dissipating the wreath of smoke that hung over his shoulders with the movement. The moonlight gave him a silvery glow, standing by the window as he was.

"All our Shire guests have settled in," he said, as Harry seated himself on Elrond's desk and lit the lamp beside him. "And I bumped into Gimli son of Glóin on my way here. He was rather in a hurry, so we did not talk long. Still, I gather that he and his father is not here on idle business."

"You are correct," Elrond said, with a heavy sigh, clasping his hands behind him. "Some evil is at work in the North, spreading ill words and false tidings. Thirty years ago a group of dwarves went into Moria."

Harry stilled. Thirty years ago, he was not here. _He was not here_ and the dwarves _forgot_. Over the sound of his racing heart, he asked, "Are there–Did anyone return?"

"Erebor received no news of them," Elrond said, and it was as good an admission.

"Did they not know what is in there?" Glorfindel demanded, a fell, furious light blazing in his eyes. "Did they not remember that a Balrog lies in Moria?"

A shadow passed over the room as the lamp flickered. Harry drew his knees up and shuddered at the feeling of heat rolling up his arms ( _consuming and consuming_ ).

"I believe they thought it dormant or dead," Elrond said, ignoring Glorfindel's disbelieving scoff. "Long though the memories of dwarves are, the balrog is an ancient foe beyond much their ken."

"I know Dáin," Harry said, words muffled as he buried his face in his knees. "I spoke with him shortly before I left. There were rumours then as well, but even fools could have told they were fake. I cautioned him against its spread, but I did not think to caution him against entering Moria."

"You should not have had to," Glorfindel thundered. "The balrog is a foe that should not have been forgotten, no matter how long. The information was paid for with life—only a fool would disregard it."

"Have care how you speak," Harry said, more sharply than he intended. He looked up. "Dáin is no fool."

"Indeed," said Elrond, interrupting soothingly. "I am given to understand that he had not given leave willingly."

For a moment longer Glorfindel stood tall and proud, coldly furious as light seemed to radiate from his form. Then he looked around the room and subsided, deflating wordlessly into a seat. Elrond's study seemed suddenly bigger.

"Who was on the expedition?"

Gandalf, who had till then been silent, looked worn and resigned. There was a good chance he would know those ill-fated dwarves personally, Harry realised abruptly, being the only one among them four who made a habit of mingling, frequently, with all the peoples of Middle-earth.

"With Balin went Ori, Óin, Flói, Frár, and three others."

With each name Gandalf seemed to grow older.

"I am sorry," Elrond said quietly. "Alas that this is not the only bad news Glóin brings."

Glorfindel crossed his arms. "There are worse?"

"Sauron has sent messengers to Erebor seeking the ruling Ring. He has tried bribery; ere this season ends he will try again with force." Elrond looked at them all. "And I fear he may triumph."

Something that felt a little like the weight of Númenor crashed down on them.

"We must also, of course, not forget the fate of the Ring."

Such a thing was a little hard to forget. His lips twisted into a mirthless grin. But–

"Do we have the authority to decide its doom?"

They turned to Glorfindel, who looked between Elrond and Gandalf. "This is no matter that affects only Rivendell or Elves and Wizards. The fate of the Ring is ever tied to the fate of Sauron, and Sauron is a foe of all who live on this land. Do we few have the authority to decide for all Free People their fate?"

Silence met his words.

Harry glanced at Gandalf. He stroked his beard with a pensive expression and made no answer.

"I will hold a counsel," Elrond said at last. "We do not have all the facts yet, and my heart tells me that we will hear much more before we can decide upon a course of action."

* * *

Harry awoke to the late morning sun and chatter drifting through the windows. He blinked and laid still, feeling for a moment as if the sky was still only just grey and he had only just dropped onto the bed, before the feeling passed and restlessness propelled him to his feet and out of his room. That was Westron he could hear being spoken in the south courtyard, with the Shire accent that he was rapidly becoming used to.

Pausing in the corridor, he looked down, spotting a head of dark hair disappearing beneath the arch. Curiosity aroused—because he had deliberately chosen to stay away from the main buildings, away from frequented places and people, and now these hobbits were at (below) his doorstep—Harry crossed to the other side of the corridor and leaned over.

"I'm sure we took a right at the tapestry with the white towers," Merry said, scratching his head.

"You must have remembered wrong then, Cousin, because I know we went left. There was that apple tree, do you recall?"

Frodo looked around. "I thought we passed the apple tree _before_ we came to the tapestry, Pip. Oh dear, we are rather lost now, aren't we, Sam?"

The last part was said in amusement, as if he didn't really mind their state of lostness. Harry raised an eyebrow. The hobbits were more than a little astray, if they still thought they'd taken a wrong turn at the tapestry of Elostirion and the White Towers. That one hung near the forges to the east, and rather a distance away from him and his in the north.

"At this rate we're going to be late for _lunch_ ," Pippin moaned, and the despondency in his voice caused Harry to grin.

He was, however, not feeling entirely up for company. Perhaps later he could show them around Rivendell, but now the thought of breaking his silence, of _speaking_ , was met with much reluctance. Still, he ought to do the good deed and guide the hobbits back to the dining hall before they committed the dreadful crime of being late for meals.

He drew his wand, paused, and gave it a twirl. White mist drew together and coalesced into an enormous stag, one rivalling Thranduil's elk in size. Silver antlers brushed the columns by the corridor as the large head shook itself, before regarding Harry with dark eyes.

His will passed easily between them, and Harry ran his fingers through its lush snow fur before stepping back. Prongs leapt lightly over the railings, taking two mid-air steps before landing on the leaf-strewn floor of the courtyard below. The hobbits had moved on again (in a direction that would lead them on a merry loop around the quarries before finally coming to the city centre proper), and Prongs bounded after them on ethereal hooves that stirred not a leaf. A moment later there was an exclamation, and then conversation, too indistinct to be properly understood.

A few moments later Prongs returned, four hobbits following belatedly behind in bemusement. They were too slow to catch up to him proper, coming only just up to his underside, but the great stag was careful not to slip too far ahead. He darted just out of reach but always within view each time the hobbits caught up, leading them gradually out of the courtyard and towards the dining hall.

Harry followed the progression of the silver antlers and curious voices until both were too far away to be seen or heard, and pushed himself off the railing.

It was after all, soon to be lunch. He would not be too late himself if he headed to the hall now.

* * *

 **ALRIGHT so a) I'm so sorry guys, about the disjointedness of THIS CHAPTER /shakes fist and b) the lateness because I had it more or less in an okay state _three weeks_ ago but it felt too ****fillery for my liking so I kept from updating because ey how hard can it be to inject plot? (Very.)**

 **(and also I vastly underestimated how helicopter the dad could be and so overestimated my writing time.)**

 **So yeah I'm just gonna take my Anonymous Author Benefits and update this and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to do Productive Stuff. Like studying. (ha.)**

 **G'day, people!**

* * *

 **12/5 update: right so next update is probably not going to be done anytime soon because I underestimated graduation year workload. Optimistically, it's by the first week of June. Pessimistically, by December when all the applications, exams, school etc. is over. :/**


	6. Chapter 5: The Council of Elrond

Three weeks passed in a blink.

Harry had not been too certain of the reasons for the wait till the council, but he had learnt not to doubt the elf with foresight. By the end of the second week, he understood.

Galdor, on errand from Círdan, arrived at the end of the first week. He bore greetings from Círdan and was persuaded to hold his message until the council, when all things would—hopefully—become clear.

A messenger from Mirkwood arrived in the middle of the second week in a great hurry. Whatever message he was carrying, it did not seem to be a pleasant one, based on Legolas' distress. He, like Galdor, was convinced to stay until the council.

The very night before the council was held, Harry found a man wandering a little aimlessly in the southern end of the valley. It was Boromir, who'd been seeking Rivendell for answers to his puzzles but lost his horse and map crossing the Gwathló. He seemed much relieved to have found a guide, though the magic part may have been a little shocking.

Harry sensed a certain touch about this entire thing. It was not that Rivendell did not have visitors, but these few in particular? Coming to Rivendell together in this short span of time, unbidden?

Gandalf, who was no doubt more in tune with such matters, said nothing.

And throughout the weeks, though Harry and Glorfindel had extensively combed the region both together and apart, the last Nazgûl remained elusive, only ever glimpses of a shadow in the corner of their eyes.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

Elrond met their disappointments with unflappable calm, ordering the sentries to be on heightened guards and doubling the frequency of the patrols. He was the lord of Rivendell; the valley lent itself to him, but the distant regions were colder and out of his authority altogether. And so the wraith passed uncaught.

* * *

When the sun rose, pale and cool on the day of the council itself, Harry had already arrived at the porch. He paused at the archway and raised an eyebrow at the sight before him.

"Good morning," he called.

Elrond looked up, halting his pace. The lines on his face eased somewhat. "Good morning, Reviauron. Please have a seat."

"Did you sleep at all?" Harry asked incredulously, choosing a seat near the end of the semi-circle.

"I had enough," said Elrond, which in his own language meant 'I blinked very slowly once'.

Harry snorted and glanced around, looking for a sweep of gold. "How'd you convince Glorfindel?"

"He did not," called a new voice. "Glorfindel gave up at four."

"Ah. That certainly explains some things. Hello, Erestor."

Elrond's Chief Counsellor smiled at him, stopped smiling to shake his head disapprovingly at Elrond, and then sat down, holding a sheaf of papers and a long brown quill. In a looped hand, he began to write the date on the first sheet.

With a grin, Harry conjured a glass and filled it with water, balancing it on his chair's armrest for later when Elrond needed it.

Gold flashed from the corner of his eyes and Glorfindel arrived at the porch. He pursed his lips and levelled an incredibly disappointed stare at Elrond, then threw his hands up and tramped to the chair on Harry's right when the Elf-lord raised an impenitent eyebrow.

"Save me from the stubbornness of thick-headed fools," he grumbled, sinking down.

Erestor looked up with a wry smile. "You say that as if you are not counted among them."

Harry snickered. Glorfindel drew himself up, but his half-hearted affront was interrupted by the soft chiming of bells around the porch and echoed through the corridor.

Elrond stopped his pacing and straightened by the central plinth to face the archway. Not too long after, their guests began to stream through.

Galdor dipped his head at Elrond as he passed, taking a seat by Erestor. Glóin's delegation came next, each dwarf mostly unarmed save for a token throwing axe by their side. Aragorn and Legolas arrived together, shoulder-to-shoulder, both seemingly in high-spirits. Boromir strode onto the porch proudly bearing Gondor's silver tree on his chest and its horn by his side, all traces of fatigue vanished from his features. His expression brightened as he glanced at those present, and he settled a little stiffly to the chair on Harry's left.

"Fair morning," he said.

"It is rather," Harry agreed, with a glance up at the clear sky. "How have you found Rivendell?"

"It is very pleasant," Boromir said, smiling. "My brother would have loved to be here."

"Your brother?" Harry cocked his head. He did not recall hearing of Denethor's second son.

"My brother Faramir. He is but five years younger than I, yet often his wisdom exceeds even that of our father. He would enjoy Imladris." Boromir looked wistful. "Were he here, I fear the lore-masters would never gain a moment's peace."

There was clear pride and love in his voice, and his stern countenance softened a little.

"The lore-masters would be pleased to have a fresh perspective in their debates," Harry said with a smile. "The more apt question is if your brother can bear to discuss for days the semantics of Gondor Sindarin."

"He can and he would," said Boromir solemnly. "When we were young, he would spend nights in the courtyard with Mithrandir when he visited, and only return to bed at dawn. Our father was not most pleased when he discovered it."

With what he knew of Denethor II, Harry can't imagine him being anywhere near pleased with Gandalf. He gave a soft snort. "Mithrandir does have a penchant for getting others into trouble. Ah—there he comes now."

Gandalf's grey hat was momentarily visible through a sparse patch on the wall of leaves by the corridor, and Harry tracked its progress to the archway. The Istar was accompanied by Frodo and Bilbo, and he paused to let them pass first.

A little ways behind him was Sam, who looked uncertainly at the circle of seats filled with people. He hesitated, and then stepped onto the porch. When no one objected, he slunk to a side and sat down in an unobtrusive corner by a chair. Harry glanced around. Everyone's focus was on Elrond, who gave no indication of having noticed their uninvited addition and was introducing Frodo—and by extension, Hobbits—to the many present who had likely never seen a Hobbit before this moment.

Well then. Harry leaned back in his chair as Elrond proceeded to do a sweeping introduction.

"–Boromir, a man who came hither from Gondor in the South. Here is Reviauron, of late also known as Harald in the Common Tongue, and Glorfindel of my own household." Elrond paused and swept his piercing gaze across them all. "Many of you have come bearing news and seeking counsel, and were bidden to be present in this Counsel. Here, you will hear all that you need to understand the purposes of the Enemy, and you will learn that your trouble is but only a part of the trouble that plagues this land."

Boromir shifted forward ever so slightly.

Galdor stood up and spoke first, sharing the smattering of news and rumours he had collected while making his way from the shores in the rhythmic, wave-like accent of the Falathrim. In his travel, he had seen and heard traces of the Ringwraiths' journey across Eriador, and felt the growing unease that pervaded the Old Forest.

At the mention of the forest, Harry scowled. He had not an ounce of liking for that cesspit, and less still for those it housed, however willingly or unwillingly. He'd been concerned when he first heard of the hobbits' expansion past the Brandywine—the Old Forest was not warded as per the truce, which meant that people was free to wander in and be kept. The Buckland hobbits managed to thrive on its edge mostly unimpeded through liberal application of ritualistic bonfire, good sense, and great hedges.

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin were much luckier than they'd ever know, cutting across it like that.

The dwarves started next. Harry kept his grip on the armrest deceptively light and his expression disinterested when Glóin spoke of Moria, as if he had not repeatedly and extensively warned against that place, or that he had not moved the entire Eyrie further south for the sole purpose of ensuring that nothing escaped from it. The dwarf glanced at Gandalf every so often, as if expecting him to speak, but Gandalf was silent and still.

With his words, Glóin painted a grim picture of the north. It was not entirely new news—Sauron had certainly known what and where hobbits were when the Nazgûl came—but word of a war looming on the doorstep of Dale and Erebor was information that had not yet come to them. The least of rings, a trifle that Sauron fancies—Harry snorted. Right. The One Ring was as least and trifling as a Silmaril (may they be ever holy and out of reach).

With that, the talk turned to the Ring, and Elrond began the long tale of its making and disappearance after Isildur's claim.

Boromir interrupted him near its end, by when dawn had long given way to day and the noon sun shone pale and warm upon the porch.

"So that is what became of it!" he exclaimed. "I have heard of the Great Ring, but we believed it perished from the world when he was defeated and disembodied. Isildur had taken it—to Gondor he would have brought it."

"He would have," Elrond said, a little sternly, "had it not betrayed him. As Isildur fell in the Gladden fields, it was washed into the Glanduin and lost, forgotten for the next five hundred years. How it came to be found again is a different tale others will tell you, for in it I played little part."

He inclined his head at the wizened hobbit with a small smile and took his seat. Wordlessly, Harry hovered the glass across Glorfindel, who glanced at him with a carelessly raised eyebrow, until it was picked up by Elrond. In the meanwhile, Bilbo Baggins stood up with a pop of a joint—though he was still slightly below eye-level even while standing. He beamed at everyone, smile utterly warm and utterly disarming.

"I haven't yet managed to put my story in verse, so it must be told in plain words, which is perhaps less interesting than a good song."

Let it not be said that Bilbo had no priorities.

"Anyway," he continued, "it began on a fine summer day in April of 2941."

Let it not be said, either, that Bilbo was anything but a good storyteller. In a short order, he had those present hanging off his every word, interested despite themselves to hear a first-hand recount of the quest that began with thirteen and ended with the thousands involved in the Battle of Five Armies. The hobbit did not seem displeased at all the attention he gained—indeed, it seemed to achieve rather the opposite effect. He glossed over no part of the story, and also enacted, riddle by riddle, the treacherous game he played in the roots of the Misty Mountains.

He even dropped his voice to a thin, breathy rasp when it was Gollum's turn to speak, and the overall impression was of a small, eerie creature that made Harry's skin crawl.

He had heard Sméagol's story from Gandalf, as well as the lengths the Istar had went to attain it, and while he could certainly recognise its tragedy, he was not Gandalf. Gollum lived worse than a half-life, and any and all humanity was wrung from him when he exchanged a death for the Ring. No good end could come from there.

Harry curled his fingers into a fist.

Finally, Bilbo came to the conclusion of the Battle of the Five Armies. He was not, however, finished. He moved on, fully prepared to talk about his eleventy-first birthday party, when Elrond broke him off with a smile and a raised hand.

"Well told, my friend, but I think that is a good end to your story. It is time to let others now continue the tale."

"Well, if you think so," Bilbo said, a little doubtfully, but there was an unmistakeable tiredness in his thin voice that seemed to dampened his enthusiasm for a longer storytelling, and so he sat down without complaint.

Frodo was next in line to tell his tale, and he did so with vastly less pleasure than what Bilbo had derived from it. It was a story Harry had already heard on the way as they had traveled from the South Downs to Rivendell, though then it was told by four narrators. Frodo stopped once he reached their arrival at the Elven city, and settled back down, seemingly uncomfortable with everyone's eyes upon him.

Boromir stood up and turned around to face Elrond. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to now say more of Gondor. It would be well for all to know what passes there, and the peril that awaits should we at last fail."

Elrond inclined his head in wordless consent, and Boromir took a step forward, facing the circle.

"Though Isildur was felled by his Bane, believe not that in Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, and its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour are the terror of Morgul and the dark creatures of the Enemy stayed, and alone we have stood, bulwark of the West, such that peace and freedom is maintained in the lands behind us."

He looked around, grey eyes flashing with determination.

"Yet though our valour has not faltered, still we were swept away by sudden war from Mordor. There is a power at play, a power we have not felt before. Some said it was like a great black horseman, a dark shadow under the moon, and wherever it came, fear fell on our boldest men and horses bolted from its presence. Because of it, the eastern shores of the Anduin is now lost to us."

Boromir paused and shook his head in weary resignation.

He could only be speaking of the Nazgûl, though Harry would not be surprised if Sauron had called forth lesser wraiths to plague the soldiers of Gondor.

"And so it is in this evil hour that I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues, to ask for counsel and the unravelling of a riddle. For a dream had come oft to my brother, and once to me, and in that dream, a pale light lingers in the west, against the dark eastern sky. There is a voice crying, remote and clear:

 _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall be counsels taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells._

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand_."

Harry's interest was piqued when Boromir had spoken of dreams, and he'd leant forward, resting his head on a propped arm. Now, he settled slowly back into his chair, glancing sideways at Gandalf. This dream held the touch of Irmo, and through him the will of the Powers.

How curious then, that _Boromir_ was the one at this counsel, when his brother _Faramir_ was the main recipient of these dreams.

Harry would very much like to meet this man.

He did not, however, very much like that last line of the vision. _The Halfling forth shall stand_? For the sake of the hobbits, who had all grown onto him a little, and especially for the sake of Frodo, he hoped that the vision had already come to pass.

"Here in the house of Elrond a part of your puzzle shall be made clear to you," Aragorn said, and he stood up. Under the heavy stares of all present, he came to the stone plinth and laid down his sword; it was broken in two pieces.

"Behold the Sword that was Broken," he said, with a lopsided smile.

"What has a Ranger as yourself to do with Gondor?" Boromir asked incredulously.

"He is no mere Ranger," Legolas exclaimed, leaping up. "He is Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, and heir to Gondor's throne."

Boromir was silent as he regarded them, and Gandalf tapped his staff once on the stone ground before he could respond.

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo," the Istar said solemnly. "Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

Frodo looked at them, wide-eyed and startled to be addressed so suddenly. A hush came over the porch, and anticipative stares fell upon the hobbit. Slowly, Frodo reached for the chain partly hidden by his shirt. For the briefest moment, he hesitated, conflict warring on his features, until a sudden blankness came over him. In one smooth motion he drew his hand out and opened his fist.

Harry swiftly averted his gaze. It landed on Bilbo, who had become quietly still, leaning forward in his seat to stare unblinkingly at the Ring on Frodo's palm, a hungry glint in his eye.

Feeling faintly ill, Harry looked up, where he needn't have the flicker of gold in his vision. Even so, his gaze felt heavy, as if gravity were pulling it down to the small, perfectly circular ring on the exposed palm.

It would be so _easy_ to take it. That was the thing. There was no one who can stop him this side of the sea. Not Gandalf, who was too kind, too merciful, and not Radagast, who cared little for those not animal nor plant; not Saruman, who schemed in his dark tower and thought too highly of himself; not Elrond or Galadriel, or indeed Glorfindel, who for all their wisdom were only Elves, of which two were currently unarmed.

No opponent save Sauron, who would be easily sorted out with mastery of the Ring. Harry remembered the months he had spent under his _gentle_ hospitality; the favour must be repaid.

The Ring could be so easily taken—

But he had no use for it.

The thought came to him on a gust of cold west wind. Harry closed his eyes and held onto its crystal clarity, curling and uncurling his fingers until he no longer felt trickles of liquid dripping from his hand.

When he reopened his eyes, Frodo had put the Ring away and Boromir was standing again.

"–why do we not use this gift from our foes?"

Harry turned to his right and met Glorfindel's concerned gaze.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. It was easy, when he was not confronted with the thing, to pretend that the Ring did not exist as they rode to Rivendell. There were things to do and watches to keep, all under the careful caution of one who was hunted. Easy to mentally stick his fingers in his ears and go tralalalally when the Ring comes knocking.

Less so when it was exposed, when knowing more about it only made it all the more alluring. Elrond was actively suppressing its influence, Harry knew, but it was not an act he could maintain for long, lest he broke himself upon the Ring's pull.

 _Just within arm's reach_ —

Harry returned his attention to Boromir, whose gaze lingered heavily on Frodo and Aragorn in turns.

"His concern for his people and country is admirable, but I fear the strength of his devotion," Glorfindel murmured, so quietly he was nearly inaudible, with the faintest of a frown upon his features.

Harry nodded, watching in surprise as Gandalf stood up, brandishing his staff.

" _Ash nazg durbatulûk,_ " he began, and all Elves flinched. Upon the first word his voice changed, turning harsh and hard like grating of granite blocks.

"A _sh nazg gimbatul._ "

A shadow passed over the sun, stealing warmth and light from the council gathered and leaving only a sense of dread. Darker harmonics had entered Gandalf's voice, and Harry half-rose, wand in hand.

A gale arose as Vilya and Narya responded to the verse that bound them and betrayed them in turn, sweeping across the porch. There was a rustle and one of Erestor's papers came loose, jerked wildly away before he could catch it.

" _Ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_!"

Wincing, Harry stood, eyes flashing gold for the briefest moment as he wrestled the wind under his control. The shadow passed and warmth returned, but the feeling of dread was harder to shake. Harry summoned the battered sheet towards him, crossing the circle to return it. Erestor bowed his head in gratitude and grimaced at the state of the page.

Elrond spoke.

"Never before has any voice dared utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey."

His voice was stern, and as Harry turned to his seat, he saw the unspoken warning that passed between the two Ring-keepers. Gandalf coughed and bowed his head in wordless acknowledgement, and said aloud, "And let us hope that none will ever speak it here again. But I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for that tongue may soon be heard in every corner of the West ere long."

"What do the Wise counsel?" Galdor asked. "What of Saruman? He is learned in the lore of the Ring and of the Enemy, yet he is not not among us, for all that there are many here."

"Saruman," Gandalf said heavily, "has delved too deeply into the lore of the Enemy and fell into his grasp. For a while now he has deceived us, claiming that the Ring is lost, long since rolled down the river to the sea. I believed him and put my thoughts away, until Bilbo's little tricks aroused my suspicions once again. When I sought him earlier this year, he took me prisoner on the pinnacle of Orthanc; I escaped when Gwaihir, swiftest of the Great Eagles, bore me away in the dark of the night and set me in the land of Rohan."

At this, Harry felt a small bloom of pleasure. He was indeed the swiftest, though young Celegor looked to have the potential to beat him in still air. He did not mind it overmuch, for either way it would be a boon to their service to the Elder King.

Gandalf fell silent, gazing eastwards to the far peaks of the Misty Mountain, white-capped and forbidding.

"In Rohan I found evil at work; the lies of Saruman. The king of the land would not to listen to my warnings—I fear he has been ensnared too deeply already. It was all I could do to persuade him to grant me a steed, and even so I think he agreed more to see me gone. So I took a horse much to my liking but little to his, for he is the best horse in the land; Shadowfax, chief of the Mearas. But you asked me of Saruman, Galdor, and I have told you. I was at fault, lulled by the words of Saruman the Wise when I should have sooner sought the truth."

"We were all at fault," Harry said firmly. They had all trusted Saruman, and placed certain value in his judgements, even if Harry had not personally agreed with them at the time. Now, he could see Saruman's suggestions in a new light, and it chilled him with how long ago they started to stray.

 _He'd been so blind_.

"Now we have all heard the tale of the Ring," Elrond said, "and now we come to the intent of this council. What is to be done with it?"

There was only the one option, Harry knew, and they'd talked about it in brief. But four or five people did not the Free people make, and it was not within their authority to decide. Now the council must themselves come to the conclusion that they few had made, and _agree_ that unmaking the One Ring was the only way.

"Frodo had spoken of a being in the Old Forest, and it recalls to me many a strange and wild thing I had seen within it. This Bombadil—is he that which we have once named Iarwain?" Erestor looked to Elrond.

The Elf-lord nodded his affirmation.

"Then could we not obtain his help? It seems that within his land, he has a power even over the Ring. Would he not take the Ring and keep it there, forever harmless?"

"No," Harry said, a little curt. "And he would not."

He had not thought this would come up, but the _issue_ with the Old Forest and its inhabitants were rather before Elven time, so perhaps he should have expected one to think of it.

Glorfindel knew just enough, and fortunately, he had a better argument. "To send the Ring to him would only postpone the day of evil, and he is far away. We can not take it back to him now; a Nazgûl still lingers around the valley, and any bearer would doubtlessly be beset. The way west is barred to us."

Galdor nodded and leaned back to the murmur of the dwarves beside him.

" _Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky_ ," Glóin quoted, looking a little accusingly at the Elves present. "Four of the Seven is destroyed or lost, and the other three Sauron keeps, as he does the Nine. But still there are the Three, and they are very might Rings, it is said. There are no more Elven-kings, but I see Elf-lords here. Have they the strength to withstand the coming of Sauron?"

"Of the Three it is not permitted to speak," Elrond said coolly, though his expression turned a little sad. "Though Sauron never touched them, they are bound to him nonetheless, and if he regains the One, the hearts and minds of their wearers will be revealed to him. If the One is gone, it is believed they will fail, and all fair things they wrought will fade and be forgotten. No, Glóin. They do not have the strength."

"Then can we not cast it away into the deeps of the sea or a chasm of the earth?"

Impatiently, Harry turned to look at the speaker, a young Dwarf of Firebeard descent. "Then by virtue of his armies in Mordor, Sauron will sweep through all your realms and march across the West undiminished without the Ring; he has not been idle when we were sitting in complacent peace. And in time seas and lands will change, and the Ring will surface once more—what then? Will there be another council by whatever scattered people who are still Free? We should not seek to prolong this coming war."

"If it cannot be hidden away forever," Erestor said, "then there is only one choice left to us, if it were to be kept from the Enemy."

Harry internally applauded the Elf. Now, perhaps, someone else will see it.

"But is it not a gift?"

Harry twisted his head to look at Boromir so fast he felt something might have cracked. Incredulity was the only expression on his face, he was sure.

Boromir was standing up, an intense air about him.

"Is it not a gift to the foes of Mordor? Why not use it? Wielding it, we may surely defeat the Enemy, and that is what he most fears, I deem. The Men of Gondor are valiant and we will never submit to the foe, but we may be defeated in the end. Let the Ring be our weapon, if it is as powerful as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!"

"It cannot be wielded, Man of Gondor," Glorfindel said, far more calmly than Harry would have managed. "Its strength is too great for anyone, save those who already have great power of their own. In their hands, yes, Sauron will be overthrown, but yet another Dark Lord will rise and crown himself Lord of Mordor, Lord of Middle-earth. That is perhaps a greater evil than if Sauron was triumphant himself."

Gandalf stood up.

"The Ring must be unmade," he said firmly, finally bringing the council to the only useful conclusion. "It must be cast in the fires of Mount Doom whence it was made."

"I recall in older days that Reviauron wielded flames of beastly shapes that could in time consume even stone," Galdor said suddenly. "If he can still call on it once more, is not its heat even stronger than Mount Doom's fires?"

"It is not a matter of heat alone," Harry replied. "If it were merely a ring of gold, it would be easily melt. Alas for us Sauron has put into it much of himself, and for me to destroy the Ring is to go against a Power of the world."

His lips twisted. "A lesser, viler Power, but a Power nonetheless. The Ring must be unmade where it was made."

"But who will undertake this mission?" Bilbo asked. "And will he go alone?"

"I cannot answer your first question," Elrond said, with a slow shake of his head and something sad in his smile. "And for the second I can only say that while others shall accompany him on this journey, to be the Ring-bearer is to be alone."

Silence filled the porch, everyone's eyes downcast and faces grave.

Harry tapped a slow beat on his armrest with the pad of his finger, not looking at anyone in particular lest his gaze was construed as a pointed suggestion.

Had he been anyone other than who he was, Harry would have taken the burden upon himself. It would not be the first time he had journeyed to certain death, after all, and he seemed to have just the amount of luck to pull it off. Because he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that this was a task that bore the Ringbearer to his death. If not at the hands of orcs, if not at the mercy of the merciless and cruel, if not even in the raging lava of Mount Doom, then it was the slow, wasting of a wraith.

But he was… whatever he was; wizard, possessor of the Hallows, foreigner to Arda. Any one trait would be enough to grant him far too much power, over earth and people alike, if he really tried, and he would honestly rather not. Dark Lording was not the most satisfying of occupations, if he did say so himself, and no gold, ring or otherwise, shall break his well-maintained streak of un-Dark Lording.

He looked at Elrond, who sat still as a statue, his eyes looking into a distance so far Harry could not glimpse, and felt his lips twist into an unhappy line.

It would not come to so bitter an end. Harry's resolve firmed.

Sauron had already been defeated twice; the third time shall be permanent.

The noon bell rang, a cheerful sort of chiming that lifted the atmosphere of the porch as successfully as a sparrow lifting a boulder.

Still, all was silent.

Frodo shifted in his seat. He had that same, blankness to his face again, not so much an opaque wall that hid his emotions but a pane of clear glass that showed he had none anyone could tell.

Then he blinked, and suddenly looked very small, and very uncertain.

"I will take the Ring," he said, "though I do not know the way."

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, unable to withstand the sheer anguish that passed across Gandalf's face as the Istar realised that he had inadvertently doomed his friend by sending him on this journey.

Elrond was speaking until abruptly, Sam stood up, his presence surprising almost everyone, even Harry, who'd mostly forgotten he was here.

"But you won't send him off alone, surely?" He demanded, equal parts indignation and horror. "Not to somewhere so far and so dangerous?"

There were mutters around the circle, wondering both at his presence and tone.

"No indeed," Elrond said, smiling in truth for possibly the first time this entire day. "You at least shall go with him, for it seems hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he was invited to a secret council and you are not."

Sam turned red and mumbled something indistinct, looking as if he'd like to sink firmly down into the stone ground, but Frodo was sitting up, his joy and relief almost palpable.

Despite himself, Harry felt something warm and light settle in his chest as if the last of the shadow of before had been lifted away.

He would see this journey through and Frodo, Sam alive at its end.

* * *

 **surPRISE.**

 **Hello everyone, please wish me some luck so that I can be at least lucky if not knowledgeable in exams next week. I also accept Good Faith and Positive Vibes, in case you need your luck for yourself. Failing that, please pass on some Stern Disapproval (only the Stern type, mind). Thank you kindly.**

 **Onto relevant topics: apologies for draggy beginning, because the last chapter Went Terribly Wrong for many reasons (and that's what you get for posting at 1 a.m. without thinking) (I say as I post this at what should be 11 p.m.) but there is literally not enough time to rewrite that/insert a new chapter while trying my best not to procrastinate, so que sera, sera.**

 **And on looking forward: I am Terribly Excited to write what is possibly Chapter 21, because apparently my graph of Drama against Plot is an exponential curve that approaches an asymptote at possible C22/23. ヽ(´ー｀)┌**

 **Good period-of-the-day, y'all, and farewell until August. Or November. Or December.**

 **Definitely before 2018 though.**


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